yWJWrVsMy^ 


' 


I2f  PRESS. 

21  2Cc 

By  the  Author  of  thig  Volume 

ENTITLED 

TASHLENE. 


YICTOIEE. 


ttood. 


\ 


He  that  ruleth  his  spirit,  is  greater  than  he  that  taketh  a  city. 


NEW    YORK: 

Carle  ton  ^  Publisher^  413  Broadway, 


M  DCCC  LXIV. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1864,  by 

GEO.  W.  CARLETON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


B.    CRAIOHEAP, 
Printer,  Stertoijrper,  and  Klectrotypsr. 

Carton   Lnnitimg, 
81,  83,  and  6S  Ctntn  Strut. 


Al/6 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

THE  PARTING, 7 

LES  DELICES, 11 

PARIS,       .        i      '  .        .        . 17 

LOVE,        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        ..        .        .  22 

DYING, 27 

A  LOVE  LETTER, 34 

THE  REFUSAL, 39 

VlCTOIRE  ON  THE  OcEAN, •        .            .            .  47 

MRS.  SKINHER  AND  A  FEW  OF  HER  BOARDERS,     ....  51 
BOARDING-HOUSE  LlFE,      ........61 

ORSINO, 65 

IMPROPRIETIES, 70 

A  LITERARY  WOMAN,         .        .        .        .*.        .        .        .  79 

ADVERSITY, 94 

THE  COMING  BACK, .  104 

GETTING  WELL, 115 

ANOTHER  BOARDING-HOUSE, 122 

VlCTOIRE  GOES  TO  WORK. TRIES  HARD  TO  BE  SENSIBLE,     .        .  133 

MORNA'S  STORY, 139 

MORNA,    HOPE,   AND    VlCTOIRE     LEAVE     THE    "  COMFORTABLE 

HOME," 152 

OUR  NEW  NEIGHBOR,  MRS.  PEACOCK, 161 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  PEACOCK  IN  A  FIRE,  .....  174 

HENRI  ROCHELLE, 188 


iv  Contents. 


PAGE 


HENRI  ROCHELLE'S  IDEAL  WOMAN,      ......  201 

BEL  EDEN, 217 

A  MARRIAGE  BEFORE  THE  LAST  CHAPTER, 233 

A  NEW  LIFE  JUST  BEGUN, 244 

LIFE, 259 

"  THINGS  WHAT  HAPPENS  ARE  STRANGER  NOR  ALL  THE  NOVELS." 

— Mrs.  Peacock, 277 

AMBROSE  MONCRIEFFE, 290 

SOCIETY, 307 

TEMPTATION, 325 

"FREE  LOVE," .  344 

HOPE, "...  351 

JEALOUSY  AND  CONQUEST,    ........  364 

A  WEDDING  IN  THE  LAST  CHAPTER, 378 


VIOTOIBE. 


THE  PARTING. 

IT  was  a  fearful  night.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Without,  we 
heard  the  tramp  of  horses,  the  muffled  sound  of  marching 
troops,  the  boom  of  cannon,  the  groan  of  the  affrighted  and 
maddened  populace.  Within,  love  still  reigned,  but  accom 
panied  by  woe  and  desolation  of  heart.-  "  Marie !  my  own 
Marie !"  exclaimed  my  father,  "  God  knows  what  this  costs 
me  ;  yet  I  must  leave  you  ;  the  people  are  frantic ;  they  must 
have  a  commander.  If  I  die,  be  brave  as  the  Spartan  women 
who  rejoiced  to  see  husband  or  son  brought  back  upon  his 
shield  when  he  died  for  liberty.  Only  promise  me  one  thing. 
If  I  perish,  take  our  children  to  Les  Delices.  In  Languedoc, 
where  we  were  so  happy,  educate  them  for  their  country  and 
for  God."  "  I  promise,"  said  my  mother ;  "  but  you  must  not 
die,  you  shall  not  die  ;  I  cannot  live  without  you !"  "  You 
speak  from  the  heart  of  love,"  said  my  father,  with  a  quiver 
ing  voice  ;  "yet  I  know  that  you  would  not  have  me  sit  here, 
and  not  stretch  out  my  hand,  nor  lift  up  my  voice  to  save  my 
country."  "  No !"  said  my  mother.  "  Go,  go  !  my  beloved." 
As  she  spoke,  the  convulsions  which  shook  her  frame  told  how 
great  was  the  sacrifice.  My  father  arose  to  depart.  "  Oh, 
Marie !  my  Marie  !  my  precious  wife,  the  joy,  the  very  life 
of  my  life,  can  it  be  that  I  shall  never  see  thee  more !"  he 
exclaimed,  turning  back  once  again  and  bowing  over  my 
mother.  "  Frederick,"  he  said,  turning  to  my  brother  ;  "  my 
boy,  be  a  blessing  to  your  mother ;  be  brave,  be  noble,  be 
true !"  "  Victoire !"  he  added,  taking  me  into  his  arms, 
holding  me  close  to  his  breast,  "  child  of  my  heart,  be  like 
your  mother !" 

He  said  no  more.    The  strong  form  bowed  and  shook. 


8  Victoire. 

Tears,  which  in  such  a  moment  betrayed  no  weakness, 
bedewed  the  faces  of  his  wife  and*  children.  Then  followed 
silence,  dread  as  that  in  which  we  watch  a  pair  of  beloved 
eyes  close  in  death.  At  last  he  murmured :  "  It  is  past  I 
The  bitterest  drop  is  tasted ;  adieu  I  my  idols  ;  pensez  d  moit 
adieu  /"  He  lifted  his  plumed  hat  and  was  gone. 

As  the  door  closed,  my  mother  made  no  sound.  The  time 
for  tears  had  passed.  Drawing  both  of  her  children  to  her 
heart,  she  hastened  to  a  window,  and  there,  amid  deepening 
darkness,  looked  down  upon  that  most  dire  of  all  sights,  a 
people  revelling  in  blood.  The  great  clocks  of  the  city 
struck  the  last  hour  of  night ;  still  she  stood  in  the  same  spot, 
her  forehead  pressed  against  the  cold  window-pane,  with  her 
children  strained  to  her  heart.  The  day  dawned,  and  she  had 
not  stirred,  although  we,  but  half  conscious  of  the  woe  which 
hung  over  us,  in  our  childish  weariness  had  fallen  asleep. 

The  morning  awoke  without  a  smile.  No  gleam  of  sun 
shine  shot  athwart  the  sullen  sky ;  through  the  leaden  light 
we  looked  down  upon  a  scene  full  of  horror.  The  mob  had 
spent  the  night  in  storming  and  entering  the  houses  of  the 
nobility.  Many  mansions  were  half  demolished  ;  their  costly 
furniture,  broken  and  defaced,  lay  piled  upon  the  side-walks. 
The  pavements  were  torn  up  and  formed  into  barricades. 
Dead  bodies,  gory,  ghastly,  masses  of  human  flesh,  were 
lying  thick  amid  the  ruins.  Women,  with  dishevelled  hair, 
wringing  their  hands,  shrieking  and  moaning  piteously,  wan 
dered  back  and  forth  amid  the  dead ;  now  bending  over  a 
wounded  man,  now  holding  up  a  livid  corpse,  seeking  vainly 
perchance  to  recognise  a  beloved  face.  And  still  we  heard 
the  roar  of  cannon,  the  shout  of  officers,  the  fierce  cries  of 
the  mob,  mingled  with  the  groans  of  the  dying. 

The  conflict  was  between  the  nobility  and  the  people.  The 
soldiers  were  fighting  for  their  king,  the  people  for  a  phantom 
which  they  called  liberty.  But  a  little  before  noon  we  heard 
in  universal  acclaim,  the  shout  "  Vive  la  Republique  !"  The 
moment  our  mother  heard  this  cry,  she  relinquished  her  hold 
upon  us,  and  turned  from  the  window  for  the  first  time. 
"  Your  father's  fate  is  decided,"  she  said.  "  I  must  go  and  see 
if  he  yet  lives — Frederick,  be  a  brave  boy,  and  take  care  of 
your  sister."  "I  will  be  brave,"  I  cried.  "Yes,"  she 
answered,  "  I  might  have  known  that  you  do  not  fear,  you 
are  your  father's  own  child,"  and  kissing  us  both,  she  went 
from  the  room.  In  a  few  moments  we  saw  her  slight  form 
threading  its  way  through  the  mass  of  rude  and  frantic  beings 


The  Parting.  9 

below  ;  we  saw  her  join  the  mourners  who  were  looking  for 
their  dead.  With  tears  in  our  young  eyes,  we  watched  her,  till 
in  the  vast  crowd  she  was  lost  to  our  sight. 

"  O,  dear !"  said  Frederick,  "  what  shall  we  do  if  dear  papa 
is  dead  ?"  "  Do  !  we  shall  kill  the  wicked  men  who  took  his 
life,"  I  answered,  my  little  heart  almost  bursting  with  rage 
and  grief.  "  That  we  could  not  do,  Victoire,  and  if  we  could, 
it  would  be  wicked,  and  it  would  not  bring  our  dear  papa 
back.''  "  No,  but  I  would  like  to  hurt  those  cruel  men  just 
as  bad  as  they  hurt  him,"  I  answered.  tf  It  would.be  wrong, 
Victoire.  Don't  you  remember  mamma  read  last  night  about 
Christ,  how  He  asked  His  Father  to  forgive  the  Jews  even 
when  they  were  piercing  him  ?"  "  But  I  can't !  I  can't  ask 
God  to  forgive  these  wicked  soldiers — if  they  hurt  only  me, 
I  will ;  but  if  they  hurt  papa,  or  mamma,  or  you,  Frederick," 
I  can't ;"  and,  at  the  thought,  I  burst  into  tears.  We  sank 
into  silence.  The  terrible  thought  had  taken  possession  of 
us,  that  we  should  never  see  either  father  or  mother  more. 
At  last,  overcome  with  grief  and  weariness,  we  fell  asleep  in 
the  window  seat,  locked  in  each  other's  arms. 

We  were  awakened  by  the  heavy  tramp  of  feet  in  the  halls 
below.  "Dear  papa,  you  have  come,"  I  murmured,  half 
aroused  from  a  dream,  in  which  I  had  been  clasped  in  his 
arms,  and  had  heard  his  dear  voice  again  call  me  his  "  brave 
little  Victoire."  Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  our  mother 
entered.  We  hastened  to  meet  her,  but  drew  back  aghast 
as  we  saw  the  change  which  had  come  over  her  since  morn 
ing.  Her  garments  were  soiled  and  torn ;  the  veil  which  she 
had  worn  was  rent  from  her  head ;  her  hair  fell  in  dishevelled 
masses  below  her  waist ;  her  face  was  like  that  of  death  ;  her 
eyes  tearless  ancl  full  of  woe.  Four  soldiers  followed  her, 
bearing  a  body,  which  we  instantly  recognised  as  that  of  our 
father.  They  laid  it  upon  the  table,  and  without  a  word 
withdrew,  shutting  us  in  with  our  dead.  Our  mother's 
anguish  found  no  relief  in  tears.  She  staunched  the  blood 
which  flowed  from  his  wounds,  she  lifted  the  mass  of  auburn 
curls  from  the  chill  brow  ;  she  clasped  the  stiff  hands,  she 
covered  the  white  face  with  kisses, — but  save  an  occasional 
groan  breathed  no  sound.  Frederick,  too,  hung  over  the  body, 
moaning  piteously ;  but  I  stood  apart  and  shrieked  in  pas 
sionate,  terrified  grief.  Two  ideas  possessed  my  soul.  My 
noble  father,  the  idol  of  my  childish  heart,  my  ideal  of  all 
beauty  and  perfection,  a  few  hours  before  so  full  of  generous 
life,  of  living  love,  was  cold  and  dead ;  he  could  never  speak, 


io  Victoire. 

never  gmile  upon  me  more.  Mingled  with  this  was  a  throb 
bing  hate,  a  tierce  desire  for  revenge  toward  his  murderers. 

When  in  Paris  first  sounded  the  cry  of  liberty,  which  pene 
trated  into  the  very  heart  of  the  nation,  drawing  together  the 
untaught  and  ardent  lovers  of  their  country  from  every  pro 
vince  of  France,  my  paternal  grandfather,  then  in  the  prime 
of  strength,  left  his  inheritance  of  vineyards  in  the  vales  of 
lianguedoc,  and,  hastening  to  the  capital,  joined  the  cause  of 
the  people.  He  was  a\rue  enthusiast  for  liberty.  He  hated 
the  corrupt  government  which  had  entailed  such  a  fearful 
curse  upon  his  native  land ;  but,  unwilling  that  the  unfortu 
nate  Louis,  the  radiant  Antoinette,  with  their  innocent  chil 
dren,  should  be  sacrificed  for  the  crimes  of  their  ancestors,- 
did  all  in  his  power  to  avert  their  gloomy  fate.  This  brought 
upon  him  the  hatred  of  the  Jacobins  ;  and  when  Robespierre 
came  into  possession  of  unlimited  power,  a  speedy  flight  was 
all  that  saved  him  from  lying  down  under  the  guillotine  amid 
the  thousand  victims  sacrificed  to  the  new  republic.  He  took 
refuge  with  his  wife  and  child  in  America;  and  here  our 
father,  an  only  child,  educated  in  the  principles  of  a  true 
democracy,  grew  up  to  manhood,  a  warm  admirer  of  the 
institutions  of  his  adopted  country. 

Shortly  xafter  his  marriage  to  an  American  girl,  he  was 
called  to  France  to  take  possession  of  the  small  remnant  left 
of  the  once  large  inheritance  of  his  fathers.  It  was  when 
Napoleon's  star  was  on  the  wane,  before  the  government  was 
again  established,  that  he  arrived  in  his  native  country.  Not 
withstanding  his  aifection  for  America,  he  loved  the  land  of 
his  ancestors  ;  and  the  hope  that  he  should  yet  see  it  a  health 
ful  republic  induced  him  to  take  up  his  residence  in  France. 
He  foresaw  and  awaited  the  approaching  crisis.  And  when, 
at  last,  the  long  smothered  fires  of  the  revolution  burst  forth 
anew  in  1830,  Henri  Vernoid,  as  his  father  before  him,  be 
came  a  champion  for  the  people.  He  possessed  the  tragic 
energy,  the  enthusiasm,  the  chivalrous  love  of  freedom  which 
characterizes  peculiarly  the  sons  of  southern  France.  The 
unison  of  a  logical  and  disciplined  intellect  with  these  charac 
teristics,  eminently  fitted  him  for  a  commander,  and  enabled 
him  not  only  to  lead,  but  to  quell,  the  fury  of  the  turbulent 
masses.  He  never  used  his  eloquence  to  incite  them  to  deeds 
of  blood,  but  to  prompt  them  to  deliberate  and  temperate 
action.  On  the  day  in  which  he  fell,  his  presence  stilled  the 
wild  tumult  of  the  people  wherever  he  went.  Amid  this 
labor  of  love,  he  received  a  bayonet  wound  which  caused  his 


Les  Delices.  1 1 

instant  death.  He  was  buried  with  martial  honors.  Hun 
dreds  of  soldiers  who,  the  morning  before,  would  gladly 
have  pierced  him  to  the  heart,  now  that  the  power  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  people,  followed  reverently  to  the  grave  the 
pec-pie's  friend.  But  what  was  the  vast  concourse,  the  lines 
of  soldiery,  the  martial  music,  the  solemn  charge,  to  the 
widow  and  her  children  ?  Proofs  only  of  their  utter  desola 
tion. 

In  Pere  la  Chaise,  that  peerless  necropolis,  where  beauty 
and  valor,  where  honor  and  dishonor,  the  lofty  and  lowly, 
find  like  repose,  we  buried  our  dead. 


LES   DELICES. 

A  month  had  scarcely  passed  after  our  father's  death  before 
we  found  ourselves  at  Les  Delices.  If  you  cross  the  ocean, 
you  can  find  it  standing  aniid  ripening  vineyards  in  a  delicious 
valley  near  where  the  arrowy  Rhone  flows  into  the  southern 
sea.  The  Cevennes  tower  above  it ;  some  resting  their  cheeks 
of  snow  upon  the  farthest  sky ;  others  rising  softly  below, 
crowned  with  furs  and  girdled  with  vines.  The  Rhone,  rush 
ing  from  rocky  fastnesses,  pours  its  waters  with  mad  impetu 
osity  into  the  lap  of  this  tranquil  valley.  On  its  banks,  far 
as  the  eye  can  reach,  you  may  see  magnificent  chateaux,  pic 
turesque  cottages,  and  blossoming  vineyards.  The  river  is 
instinct  with  life.  White-winged  boats  are  for  ever  flitting 
by,  while  the  boatman's  song  and  the  boatman's  call  make 
the  music  of  its  night  and  of  its  day. 

Les  Delices,  half  chateau,  half  cottage,  with  a  single  red 
turret,  an  overhanging  roof  and  verandah,  stands  at  the  base 
of  a  mountain  upon  an  eminence  sloping  down  to  the  Rhone. 
Above  it,  upon  the  mountain  side,  the  firs  of  Languedoc 
extend  their  great  arms  of  shade.  A  cascade,  leaping  from 
a  lofty  gorge  breaking  upon  the  rock-ledges  at  its  side,  falls 
a  rapid  stream,  watering  the  vineyard  below.  Manifold  vines 
fasten  to  the  low  verandah,  and,  striving  upward,  cling  with 
their  delicate  festoons  and  blossoms  around  the  ruddy  neck 
of  the  turret.  Bountiful  trees  shade  the  lawn  down  to  the 
river's  brink ;  fountains  play  with  a  dreamy  lull  amid  their 
shadows ;  quaint  seats,  arbors  girdled  with  flowers,  calm-faced 
statues,  rest  under  their  far-spreading  boughs,  perfect  ideals 
of  beauty  and  repose.  At  the /entrance  of  the  green  arcade 


12  Victoire. 

leading  to  the  house,  a  marble  Ceres,  garland-crowned,  her 
white  arms  over-flowing  with  pallid  fruits,  offers  welcome  to 
all  who  enter  the  precinct  of  Les  Delices. 

In  this  perfect  abode,  in  spite  of  our  own  grief  and  the 
woe-smitten  face  of  our  mother,  we  began  to  grow  happy. 
Ours  was  the  elastic  heart  of  childhood,  in  which  the  sunshine 
of  to-day  absorbs  the  grief  of  yesterday.  Only  children,  we 
were  unconscious  of  the  desolation  which  the  sight  of  Les 
Delices  brought  to  our  mother's  heart.  Our  father  had 
adorned  it  with  especial  reference  to  her  love  for  the  beauti 
ful.  Here  she  spent  the  first  years  of  her  wedded  life,  which 
passed  an  unbroken  dream  of  happiness.  She  left  it,  a  proud 
and  happy  woman,  with  every  earthly  wish  gratified  in  her 
noble  husband  and  infant  children.  Now  she  had  come  back 
a  widowed  mother,  a  broken-hearted  mourner,  reminded  at 
every  step  of  the  idolized  dead.  She  taught  us  to  believe 
that  he  was  not  far  away,  that  he  still  loved  and  watched 
over  his  children,  till  gradually  the  horror  connected  with  his 
violent  death  wore  away,  and  our  father  became  to  us  a  spi 
ritual  friend — unseen,  smiling  upon  our  childish  sports,  and 
kissing  our  little  brows  amid  our  sweet  night  visions.  Our 
mother  gave  us  all  the  vintage  time  in  which  to  recruit  our 
health  and  spirits.  Hand  in  hand,  Frederick  and  I  wandered 
through  the  vineyards,  assisting  the  merry  peasants  to  gather 
their  delicious  harvest.  When  the  day  was  closing  we  would 
go  to  the  village  green,  not  far  away,  to  watch  their  evening 
dance.  There  was  no  feasting  nor  drunkenness.  Aged  peo 
ple  and  children  in  neat  attire  sat  under  the  trees,  while 
youths  and  maidens  in  holiday  dress  danced  and  saug  upon 
the  sward,  blithe  as  birds  in  their  native  air. 

But  these  glad  days  rapidly  fled.  The  vintage  was  gathered. 
Fierce  winds  swept  through  the  valley.  The  voice  of  music 
and  of  dancing  was  heard  only  by  cottage  hearths.  And 
Frederick  and  I  sat  busy  with  our  books,  by  our  mother's 
side,  in  our  beautiful  but  lonely  home.  She  was  fully  compe 
tent  to  superintend  our  education.  To  her  quick  and  reten 
tive  mind,  study  had  ever  been  a  pastime.  She  loved  know 
ledge  for  itself,  for  the  vast  world  of  thought  which  it  opened 
to  her  intellectual  vision.  And  her  daily  life  was  a  contradic 
tion  of  the  false  assertion  that  the  highest  intellectual  deve 
lopment  unfits  woman  for  domestic  duty ;  for  no  art  had  she 
mastered  so  perfectly  as  the  beautiful  one  which  enabled  her, 
at  all  times,  to  make  a  happy  home.  Our  mother  gave  us  a 
portion  of  every  day  to  wander  about  at  our  will.  In  these 


Les  Delices.  13 

hours  I  forgot  all  the  trouble  I  had  had  with  my  studies,  for 
got  all  my  naughty  tempers,  forgot  everything  in  the  exube 
rant  joy  which  seemed  to  overflow  in  every  heart-throb.  We 
wandered  through  the  vineyards  and  forests;  climbed  the 
rock  sides  after  the  pale  flowers  which  grew  in  their  mossy 
clefts.  But  our  favorite  retreat  was  a  small  grove  of  firs, 
which  from  one  side  of  Les  Delices  stretched  down  to  the 
Rhone.  Here  upon  rude  seats  we  would  sit  and  gaze  upon 
the  river  far  up  and  down  the  valley ;  upon  the  mountains 
which  soared  above  us,  till  their  silvery  summits  seemed  to 
melt  away  in  the  soft  heavens. 

To  this  retreat  Frederick  would  bring  a  book,  occasionally 
fe'eding  his  eyes  upon  the  glory'around  him.  To  me  books 
were  a  mockery.  Beneath  a  tranquil  sky,  in  the  fragrant  air, 
the  insatiable  demand  of  my  nature  for  harmony  was  grati 
fied.  I  was  a  child,  and  could  not  analyse  my  satisfaction. 
I  did  not  know  that  in  nature  I  beheld  embodied  the  half- 
defined  yet  all-pervading  idea  of  the  Beautiful  which  haunted 
my  childish  brain.  The  many  changes  of  the  sky,  the  tints 
upon  the  clouds,  the  outline  of  every  mountain,  the  hue  of 
every  flower,  the  light  and  shadow  upon  the  foliage — every 
phase  of  the  sublime  picture  which  nature  each  day  presented 
to  my  childish  eyes,  was  as  familiar  to  me  as  my  mother's 
face.  Within  our  home  were  a  few  rare  works  of  art.  The 
portraits  of  my  father  and  mother,  and  the  exquisite  statue 
of  a  young  girl,  kneeling,  clasping  a  wayside  cross,  her  pure 
face  uplifted  to  heaven,  were  my  especial  delight.  Indeed,  I 
never  wearied  in  gazing  upon  them,  and  they  grew  upon  my 
soul  until  they  became  a  part  of  its  being. 

Amid  the  joy  which  I  felt  in  studying  them  was  born  the 
desire  to  produce  something  which  should  be  their  kin. 
Could  I  not  give  a  tangible  form  to  the  vague  images  of 
beauty  which  were  for  ever  shifting  before  my  mental  vision  ? 
Many,  many  times  I  asked  this  question,  until,  one  day,  in 
the  excitement  of  feeling,  I  resolved  to  try.  I  endeavored 
to  draw  the  outline  of  the  scene  before  my  window,  and,  to 
my  delight,  succeeded  beyond  my  hopes.  I  carried  the  rude 
sketch  to  my  own  little  room,  there  to  complete  it  at  my 
leisure.  And  when,  at  last,  it  was  finished,  to  my  childish 
eyes  it  was  the  fac-simile  of  the  mountains,  the  river,  the  val 
ley,  which  lay  outside  our  door.  A  new  delight  was  now 
open  to  rne,  all  the  more  keenly  enjoyed  because  enjoyed  in 
secret.  For  I  had  resolved  to  say  nothing  of  my  new  art 
until  I  had  produced  something  which  should  command  the 


14  Victoire. 

unbounded  admiration  of  my  mother  and  brother.  Child 
though  I  was,  I  made  everything  bow  to  my  new  object.  I 
performed  my  allotted  tasks  with  great  alacrity,  in  order  to 
gain  time  for  the  beloved  employment.  At  such  an  hour  of 
every  day,  with  throbbing  heart  and  winged  feet,  I  flew  to 
my  little  sanctuary,  and  there,  with  leaden  pencil  upon  broken 
cards,  vainly  attempted  to  portray  the  gorgeous  skies,  the 
purple  landscape,  the  airy  palaces,  and  the  lovely  faces 
which  brightened  my  sleeping  and  waking  visions.  Sketch 
after  sketch  was  added  to  my  treasures.  Each  day,  as  I  took 
them  from  their  hiding-place,  holding  them  before  my  eyes  in 
every  possible  light  and  shade,  I  was  intoxicated  with  delight. 
They  were  not  so  much  the  objects  of  my  admiration  as  of 
my  affection.  I  loved  them  all.  Each  was  connected  with 
some  cherished  thought,  each  the  palpable  form  which  I  had 
given  to  the  beautiful  ghost  of  the  ideal. 

Spring  came  with  redundant  and  ecstatic  life  ;  summer,  in 
voluptuous  glory ;  and  each  season  brought  a  joy  to  my 
life  which  it  had  never  brought  before.  I  had  become  a 
deeper  student  of  nature.  With  the  eye  of  an  artist  I  watched 
the  sun  in  scarlet,  white,  and  violet  flame,  ascend  above  the 
dusky  arch  of  the  mountains — watched  the  cloud-armies  mar 
shal  their  hosts  upon  the  blue  plains  of  ether.  When  they 
rushed  together  at  the  zenith,  and,  from  the  blackness  of 
darkness,  sent  their  forked  lightnings  into  the  heart  of  the 
valley;  when  their  thunders,  leaping  from  the  parapets  of 
heaven,  shook  the  foundations  of  the  defiant  hills,  my  whole 
nature  expanded,  the  storm  carnival  seemed  to  make  me 
great.  After  my  mother  had  given  me  her  good-night  kiss, 
and  ma  bonne,  bonne  Nanette  had  tucked  me  securely  in  my 
crib,  telling  me  that  if  I  dared  to  open  my  eyes  again,  the 
fairies  would  drag  me  up  the  mountain  and  shut  me  in  a  cave, 
where  I  could  cry  for  ever  and  never  be  heard,  I  only  waited 
fon  the  last  click  of  her  wooden  shoes  to  break  my  cerements 
and  escape  to  the  window,  to  find  the  twilight  and  the  night 
— to  watch  the  moonlight  sheen  flowing  over  mountain  and 
valley — the  myriad  stars  shimmering  up  from  the  dark  face 
of  the  river,  or  glittering  in  a  million  points  of  fire  on  the 
white  crests  of  the  mountains. 

There  was  no  picture  to  me  so  beautiful  as  my  mother's 
face,  as  I  saw  it  every  day  before  me  in  its  chastened  loveli 
ness.  I  was  never  weary  of  gazing  upon  the  white  brow, 
shaded  with  waves  of  brown  hair ;  upon  the  hazel  eyes,  in 
which  shone  so  serene  a  light;  upon  the  mouth,  in  whose 


Les  Delices.  15 

exquisite  curves  trembled  so  sweet  a  smile.  "  When  I  can 
draw  the  perfect  outline  of  her  face,  then  she  shall  know  my 
secret,"  I  said  to  myself,  while  vainly  attempting  to  convey 
it  to  paper. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  earnestly,  my  child  ?"  she  in 
quired  one  day,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  a  book  which  she 
was  reading  in  the  open  air.  I  was  lying  at  a  little  distance 
from  her,  under  a  tree,  gazing  intently  into  her  face.  "  For 
nothing  much,  mamma,"  I  answered,  embarrassed  to  have 
my  scrutiny  observed.  "  There  was  a  purpose  in  your  look. 
Come  here,  Victoire."  I  reluctantly  obeyed,  vainly  endea 
voring  to  hide  from  sight  the  pencil  and  cards  which  I  held 
in  my  hands.  The  anticipated  exultation  which  was  to  attend 
the  denouement  of  my  secret  I  did  not  realize.  I  began  to 
tremble  at  the  thought  of  exposing  my  rude  attempts  to  my 
mother's  cultivated  eye.  "  This  little  heart  is  throbbing  with 
some  hope  which  it  dare  not  breathe,  even  to  its  best  friend," 
she  said,  as  she  drew  me  tenderly  to  her. 

I  could  never  withstand  the  sweetness  of  my  mother's  man 
ner.  Every  doubt  died  at  the  first  sound  of  her  melodious 
voice.  "  Let  me  go !  Let  me  go  !  mamma,  only  a  minute," 
I  exclaimed,  bursting  from  her  embrace.  I  ran  for  my  trea 
sures,  and  in  a  moment  returned  to  pour  them  all  into  her  lap. 
I  could  not  interpret  every  emotion  which  passed  over  her 
face,  as  she  gazed  at  them  one  by  one ;  but  at  last  was  cer 
tain  that  I  read  pleasure,  unmistakable  pleasure,  in  her  eye. 
Yet  she  only  said :  " Do  you  like  to  draw,  Victoire ?"  "Oh, 
yes,  mamma ;  you  must  know  that  I  do !"  "  I  am  glad  that 
you  are  fond  of  it.  I  will  give  you  lessons  every  day,  if  you 
please."  "  Will  you,  dearest  mamma  ?"  I  exclaimed  ;  "  Will 
you  teach  me;  and  may  Frederick  learn  too?  Oh,  how  hap 
py  we  shallbe?"  And  with  these  words  upon  my  lips,  I 
bounded  away  in  search  of  my  brother. 

I  sang  aloud  for  joy,  as  I  ran  on  toward  the  little  grove 
of  firs  where  of  late  I  had  left  him  to  spend  many  of  his 
afternoons  alone.  I  discovered  him  under  one  of  the  trees, 
and  without  waiting  to  reach  his  side,  in  my  enthusiasm, 
exclaimed :  "  Frederick !  I  have  learned  to  draw !  Mamma 
says  that  I  shall  take  lessons  every  day.  Who  knows  but 
that  I  can  learn  to  paint  pictures  as  beautiful  as  those  which 
hang  in  the  parlor  ?  Who  knows  but  that  I  may  go  to  Italy 
some  day,  and  paint  pictures  which  will  live  for  ever  !"  Here 
I  had  reached  my  climax,  and  was  obliged  to  stop.  Frede 
rick  looked  amazed  at  my  sudden  appearance  and  strange 


16  Victoire. 

proclamation,  but  answered  presently:  "Have  you  learned 
to  draw,  Victoire  ?  I  am  glad.  And  if  you  live,  and  have 
resolved  to  be,  I  am  sure  that  you  will  become,  a  great 
painter."  There  was  nothing  in  his  words,  but  something  in 
his  tone,  which  made  me  look  in  his  face  to  see  how  he  felt. 
He  looked  pale  and  sad.  And  a  pang  of  remorse  shot 
through  my  heart  when  I  remembered  that  I  had  spoken 
only  of  myself,  while  my  noble  and  gentle  brother,  also,  had 
hopes  and  aspirations  dear  to  his  soul  as  were  mine  to  me. 

"  Frederick,  what  are  you  going  to  be  when  you  get  to  be 
a  man  ?"  I  suddenly  asked.  "  I  cannot  tell,"  he  said ;  "  life 
does  not  flow  as  proudly  through  my  veins  as  yours  ;  but  if 
I  am  never  great,  I  hope  that  I  may  be  good."  "  You  will 
be  both,"  I  said,  as  I  looked  into  his  eyes  and  threw  my  arms 
around  his  neck.  Heavy  masses  of  chestnut  curls  clustered 
around  the  pure,  high  brow.  A  crimson  flush  played  upon 
his  cheek.  His  eyes,  of  limpid  grey,  grew  luminous  with  an 
unuttered  thought. 

"  Frederick,"  again  I  asked,  "  what  would  you  like  to  be  ?" 
"  Like  to  be  !"  he  murmured,  as  if  to  himself;  "  I  would  like 
to  be  an  orator.  One  to  startle,  to  move,  to  sway  human 
masses  by  the  pathos  of  my  voice  and  the  poetry  and  gran 
deur  of  my  thought.  Then  I  would  wake  all  who  heard  me 
to  a  love  of  truth,  to  a  worship  of  the  beautiful,  to  enthusi 
asm  for  virtue,  a  devotion  to  duty,  an  undying  faith  in  their 
own  immortality."  Pie  had  forgotten  himself,  forgotten  all, 
save  the  grand  idea  which  absorbed  him.  His  eyes  seemed 
to  emit  a  divine  fire ;  his  slight  frame  expanded,  his  whole 
being  was  inspii-ed.  I  could  hardly  believe  it  to  be  Frede 
rick,  my  quiet,  my  gentle  brother.  But,  as  he  concluded,  the 
glow  faded  from  his  cheek ;  his  eyes  assumed  their  wonted . 
soft  expression.  "  You  will  think  me  very  vain,  Victoire ; 
but  ypu  asked  me  what  I  would  like  to  be."  "  And  what 
you  will  be,  Frederick,"  I  said,  again  folding  my  ai'ms  around 
his  neck  and  covering  his  face  with  kisses.  "  I  know  that 
you  will  be  both  great  and  good." 

From  that  hour,  for  his  sake,  I  became  interested  in 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  in  Homer  and  Virgil  ;  while  he 
was  only  too  ready  to  appreciate  and  to  commend  the  crude 
sketches  of  my  pencil.  Our  hours  of  recreation .  were  too 
short  in  which  to  discuss  our  hopes  and  plans  for  the  future. 
The  days  glided  happily  away  till  Frederick  reached  his 
eighteenth  and  I  my  fifteenth  birthday. 

"  I  am  weak  in  delaying  to  speak  to  you  upon  an  import- 

I 


Paris.  1 7 

• 

ant  subject,"  said  our  mother,  one  day  in  early  autumn. 
"  We  have  spent  so  many  happy  days  in  this  valley,  I  dread 
the  thought  of  leaving  it;  yet  it  is  necessary  that  we. go." 
Frederick  and  I  started  in  astonishment.  Both  answered  in 
a  breath :  "  Why  must  we  leave  it  ?  why  go  from  our  beau 
tiful  home  ?"  "  Because  it  is  for  your  highest  good.  Frede 
rick  needs  the  discipline  of  the  Academy.  He  needs  to  come 
in  contact  with  the  actual  world.  And  you,  Victoire,  need 
the  instructions  of  a  master  in  your  art."  "  O  mamma  !"  I 
exclaimed,  "  I  shall  be  so  happy !  Can  we  go  ?"  "  Yes,  you 
shall  go,  my  child,''  she  said,  smiling  at  the  sudden  change 
which  had  come  over  me.  Both  exclaimed :  "  But  when 
shall  we  go  ?"  "  As  soon  as  possible.  Before  winter  comes 
we  must  be  housed  in  Paris."  Now  came  the  busy  days  of 
preparation.  Upon  Frederick's  brain  and  mine  dawned  such 
visions  of  promise  we  almost  wondered  to  see  tears  gather  in 
our  mother's  eyes  whenever  our  departure  was  mentioned. 
But  when  the  last  day  at  Les  Delices  came;  when  all  my 
treasures  had  been  taken  from  their  sacred  nooks;  when, 
instead  of  cherished  paintings  and  beloved  furniture,  I  saw 
bare  walls  and  desolated  rooms ;  when  I  bade  good  bye  to 
the  cloud-crowned  mountains ;  to  the  Rhone,  to  the  garden, 
the  grove  of  firs  where  so  many  sunny  dreams  had  been 
born — so  intense  was  my  girlish  grief  I  would  gladly  have 
sacrificed  my  visions  of  Parisian  life  to  have  lived  over  again 
the  days  of  my  just  departed  childhood. 


PAKIS. 

In  the  very  heart  of  its  tumultuous  life,  in  the  Rue  St. 
Honore,  towered  the  gloomy  dwelling  which  we  now  called 
home.  To  us,  who  had  basked  so  long  in  the  soft  airs  of 
vine-clad  Languedoc,  it  seemed  a  very  prison.  The  dingy 
walls,  the  narrow  windows,  presented  a  gloomy  contrast  to 
the  bright,  frescoed  rooms  of  the  home  which  we  had  left. 
The  windows  of  the  parlor  opened  into  a  tiny  court  paved 
with  rude  mosaics.  In  its  centre  stood  a  mouldy  fountain 
whose  basin  was  fringed /with  a  narrow  border  of  myrtle  and 
violets.  But  my  eye  had  so  long  been  accustomed  to  the  broad, 
tree-shaded,  river-zoned  lawn  of  Delices,  with  its  statues,  its 
fountains,  its  aromatic  flowers,  its  sun-lighted  nooks,  I  could 
see  no  beauty  in  this  meagre  little  court.  But  how  soon 

2 


i8  Victoire. 

every  gloomy  impression  vanished ;  how  soon  beauty  blos 
somed  around  us ;  how  soon  the  old  rooms  grew  full  of  a 
soft  light,  filled  with  an  infinite  grace  beneath  the  touch  of 
our  mother's  hand  and  the  illuminations  of  our  mother's 
smile.  Beloved  paintings  looked  upon  us  again.  My  snowy 
statuette — the  young  girl  clasping  the  wayside  cross — once 
more  greeted  me  when  I  came.  The  crimson  curtains,  which 
used  to  attemper  the  scintillations  from  the  crystal  armors  of 
the  hills,  now  lent  a  rosy  flush  to  the  sombVe  walls.  A  warm 
carpet  glowed  beneath  our  feet.  Bright  fires  danced  in  the 
newly-polished  grate.  There  was  warmth,  and  beauty,  and 
cheer ;  there  was  love  in  our  home. 

Almost  immediately  after  our  arrival  in  Paris,  Frederick 
entered  the  Academy,  and  I  the  studio  of  Monsieur  Savone, 
an  eminent  artist.  He  was  a  grand  old  man,  with  a  soul  full 
of  enthusiasm  for  all  that  is  beautiful  and  good.  His  life  had 
been  consecrated  to  art.  He  had  studied  the  beautiful  in 
every  form,  both  in  foreign  lands  and  in  his  own.  My  pas 
sion  for  painting  won  a  place  for  me  in  his  heart.  He  knew 
every  fine  picture  in  Paris,  and  resolved  that  my  young  eyes 
should  feast  upon  the  glorious  productions  of  the  masters. 
With  delight  I  revert  to  those  enchanted  days  when,  with 
throbbing  heart  and  trembling  steps,  I  wandered  with  my 
master  through  the  galleries  of  the  Tuileries  and  of  the  Lou 
vre.  There  I  gazed  upon  the  miraculous  conceptions  of 
sculptor  and  painter.  There  I  beheld  the  embodiment  of  my 
own  most  glorious  imaginings.  Yet  the  divine  forms  and 
faces  filled  me  with  pain.  They  filled  me  with  an  insatiate 
longing,  with  an  undying  purpose  to  produce  forms  of  beauty 
which,  like  them,  would  be  immortal.  This  thought  possessed 
me  wholly,  nerving  me  to  ceaseless  foil  by  day,  filling  all  my 
dreams  at  night. 

Thus  the  winter  passed,  and  I  had  no  eyes  to  see  that  our 
mother  was  often  silent,  and  sometimes  sad.  Spring  came, 
aud  I  had  ceased  to  pine  for  the  green  vales,  for  the  purple 
vines,  for  the  mountains,  the  river,  the  sunshine  of  Langue- 
doc.  In  the  tumult,  the  pride,  the  glory  of  the  world's  metro 
polis,  I  found  that  which  seemed  to  feed  my  restless,  ambi 
tious  spirit.  I  had  ceased  to  despise  the  little  court,  with 
its  dingy  mosaics  and  mouldy  fountain.  It  seemed  pleasant 
now. 

As  the  twilights  lengthened  almost  every  evening,  Frede 
rick  and  I  wandered  to  the  Champs  Elysees. 

There  we  sat  one  evening  in  June.    We  had  wandered  to 


Paris.  19 

L'Arc  de  Triomphe  d'Etoile.  Both  were  weary,  and  one 
was  sad.  It  was  Frederick.  He  sat  with  his  head  resting 
upon  his  hand,  and  at  last  sighed  so  heavily  I  started  with 
fear.  "  Why  are  you  so  sorrowful,  Frederick  ?"  I  said,  taking 
both  his  hands  in  mine.  "  My  sorrow  is  yours,  Victoire ; 
have  you  noticed  our  mother  of  late  ?"  "Not  particularly ; 
why  ?"  "  Have  you  not  seen  how  pale  she  has  grown  ?  how 
her  strength  has  failed  ?  Victoire,  she  will  not  stay  with  us 
long."  "  Frederick,  it  cannot  be  !  You  are  ill  yourself,  and 
imagine  this."  Passionately  as  I  loved  my  mother,  her  very 
existence  did  not  seem  so  completely  a  part  of  mine  as  it  did 
that  of  Frederick.  He  not  only  knew,  but  felt  every  change 
which  passed  over  that  beloved  face.  His  exquisite  organiza 
tion  was  so  keenly  alive  to  the  most  subtle  influences  of  joy 
and  of  sorrow,  it  was  not  strange  that  he  had  noticed  a 
change  which  had  escaped  my  observation.  His  words  smote 
my  soul.  I  had  not  thought  it  possible  that  my  mother  could 
die.  To  me  she  seemed  already  immortal.  Her  life  had  en 
tered  into  all  my  plans.  In  my  dreams  she  had  gone  with 
me  to  foreign  lands,  had  dwelt  with  me  in  a  home  filled  with 
luxury  and  beauty.  I  had  won  laurels,  and  she  had  placed  them 
upon  my  brow.  Her  soft  hand  had  held  me  in  the  narrow 
way;  her  heavenly  eyes,  ever  uplifted  to  the  sky,  had  reminded 
me  always  of  the  abode  of  the  blessed.  And  now  the  thought 
that  she  might  die,  might  die  soon,  how  terrible !  "  Frede 
rick,"  I  said,  "  let  us  go ;"  and,  without  a  word,  we  arose  to 
retrace  our  steps.  It  was  a  sibylline  night.  Mystery  shone 
in  the  eyes  of  the  stars  ;  the  very  air  seemed  prescient  of  sor 
row.  The  young  moon,  like  a  stranded  wreck,  lay  on  the 
western  shore  of  the  sky ;  while  above  it  Venus  waved  her 
flaming  torch.  The  trees  stood  motionless ;  every  leaf  and 
spray,  perfectly  defined,  laid  its  dark  tracery  on  the  ground ; 
the  lapse  of  fountains  and  the  slumbrous  hum  of  insects  filled 
the  air  with  subdued  monotones.  The  spell  which  rested 
upon  the  world  did  not  suit  my  mood.  Blackness  of  dark 
ness  would  ha-ve  pleased  me  better  than  the  placid  beauty, 
the  brooding  calmness  of  this  night. 

As  we  drew  near  our  dwelling,  we  saw  a  person  in  white 
standing  in  one  of  the  long  windows  which  look  out  upon 
the  court.  It  was  our  mother  awaiting  our  return.  In  a 
moment  we  were  in  her  arms.  "  The  evening  has  been  long, 
my  dear  ones,"  she  said,  folding  us  closely  to  her  heart. 
"  You'must  be  weary ;  sit  down  and  rest."  She  sat  down  in 
the  open  window,  and  we  took  a  low  sezft  upon  either  side, 


2O  Victoire. 

as  had  been  our  wont  from  earliest  childhood.  In  silence  we 
looked  out  upon  the  petit  court.  The  old  fountain  was  show 
ering  its  diamonds  into  the  heart  of  the  pansies,  the  mosaics 
glistened  in  the  wan  light,  while  a  single  tree,  with  its  garni 
ture  of  young  leaves,  threw  a  deep  shadow  over  all.  Amid 
the  calm,  my  heart  throbbed  wildly ;  but  I  stifled  its  throes, 
while  I  looked  steadily  into  my  mother's  face.  Its  attenuated 
outline,  its  transparent  whiteness,  the  fearfully  dazzling  eye, 
the  shortened  breath  —  why  had  I  not  thought  of  these 
before  ?  Alas !  I  found  the  answer  in  the  selfishness  of  my 
own  self-contained  nature.  Our  mother,  too,  seemed  to  strug 
gle  to  be  calm.  She  clasped  Frederick's  hand  and  mine  toge 
ther,  and  pressed  both  to  her  heart.  At  last  she  spoke,  and 
her  words  came  quick,  as  if  impatient  for  utterance.  "  This 
air  stifles  me.  It  consumes  me.  I  cannot  live  in  Paris.  I 
cannot  forget  the  past.  In  these  streets  I  see  only  a  maddened 
people,  hear  only  the  tramp  of  troops,  the  clash  of  swords, 
the  roar  of  cannon,  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded  and  dying. 
Again  I  lift  the  gory  locks  from  the  brow  of  my  beloved  ;  I 
bear  him  in  his  blood  to  my  bereft  home  and  orphaned  chil 
dren.  Amid  these  scenes  I  live  ;  do  you  wonder  that  my 
heart  is  broken  !  that  I  am  dying  ?  I  cannot  live  in  Paris !" 
Slie  soon  regained  her  composure ;  and  still  holding  our 
hands  in  hers,  she  opened  to  us  her  heart.  "I  have  long 
dreaded  this  hour,"  she  said;  "for  I  felt  that  you  were  un 
prepared  for  it.  I  fear  that  it  has  never  entered  your  mind 
that  the  time  is  near  when  you  will  be  motherless.  Your 
father's  death  gave  me  a  shock  from  which  1  have  never 
recovered.  I  staunched  the  bleeding,  but  the  wound  has  never 
healed.  I  felt  that  I  must  live  for  your  sake,  and  for  years 
the  power  of  will  has  seemed  sufficient  to  sustain  life.  At  Les 
Delices  everything  reminded  me  of  the  happiest  hours  of  my 
life.  Here  all  reminds  me  of  its  own  woe !  I  feared  the 
consequences  of  coming  to  Paris,  and  the  result  has  been 
worse  than  my  fears.  I  came  for  your  sakes,  and  I  am  glad 
that  I  came,  for  you  have  received  great  profit  from  your 
advantages.  I  feel  that  it  is  my  destiny  to  die  in  Paris,  and 
to  lie  down  by  your  father's  side.  I  have  almost  reached  the 
verge  of  the  grave.  Only  for  you  I  mourn.  I  would  love  to 
walk  with  you  through  life,  yet  I  am  grateful  that  I  have 
lived  long  enough  to  see  your  characters  formed,  to  see  you 
almost  ready  to  step  forth  into  the  world,  full  of  courage  and 
hope,  believing  and  trusting  in  God  as  your  father."  Thus 
bhe  spoke  amid  our*  bursting  sobs. 


Paris.  21 

In  the  morning  she  wore  her  usually  sweet  exterior,  and 
greeted  us  with  her  wonted  smile.  I  entreated  permission  to 
remain  with  her,  and  so  did  Frederick.  "  No,"  she  said ; 
"  No ;  I  do  not  need  you.  I  would  have  you  improve  your 
time  until  I  do."  With  heavy  hearts  we  went  to  our  differ 
ent  scenes  of  study.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  Art  yielded 
me  no  satisfaction.  There  were  pictured  faces  around  me 
upon  which  I  had  never  gazed  before  without  feeling  a  thrill 
of  delight  in  every  nerve,  but  on  that  day  they  had  no  power 
to  charm.  One  thought  possessed  me.  My  mother  must  die. 
I  tried  to  banish  it,  tried  to  hope,  but  in  vain.  There  was 
something  in  her  looks,  in  her  tones — something  in  my  own 
soul  which  whispered  :  "  Your  mother  will  die." 

The  banquet  of  summer  ended.  The  garlands  upon  her 
crown  withered.  Autumn  pierced  the  heart  of  nature,  and  it 
bled.  She  hung  a  veil  of  ensanguined  mist  over  the  face  of 
the  sun ;  she  changed  the  sapphire  heavens  to  amber ;  she 
filled  the  air  with  slumbrous  melody  ;  filled  the  universe  with 
a  dreamy  glory,  beautiful  yet  sorrowful  to  behold.  Then  our 
mother  died.  Yet  to  her  came  not  death,  but  transition. 
Most  tranquil,  most  placid  was  her  passage.  God  gave  Hia 
beloved  sleep.  For  months  I  could  not  arouse  myself  to 
the  slightest  action.  "*I  have  no  mother,"  was  the  thought 
which  possessed  me.  Then  every  omission,  the  little  acts  of 
love  which  I  had  left  unperformed,  the  thousand  tender  words 
of  love  which  I  might  have  spoken,  arose  like  fiends  to  fill 
me  with  torment.  I  thought  that  my  ambition  was  dead.  / 
never  again  could  be  "so  deeply  interested  in  life  as  I  had 
been  in  the  past.  I  did  not  know  how  hard  it  is  to  still  the 
bounding  joy  of  a  young  and  buoyant  heart.  In  tides  of 
anguish  life  will  roll  in  upon  the  soul ;  but  anon  it  flows  back 
again  into  the  deep,  broad  channels  of  joy.  It  was  thus  with 
me.  As  months  rolled  away,  my  anguish  lost  its  poignancy. 
I  thought  less  of  my  own  loss,  more  of  my  mother's  gain. 
Unconsciously  I  again  became  interested  in  my  old  pursuits. 
My  joy  was  chastened,  my  ambition  tempered,  yet  life  was 
all  before  me.  I  could  not  sink  supinely.  Nothing  would 
have  grieved  my  mother  more.  I  was  only  seventeen. 


22  Victoire. 


LOVE. 

A  year  went  by,  and  yet  the  old  light  had  not  cotrfe  back 
to  Frederick's  face.  He  was  not  gloomy ;  but  in  the  deep 
irides  of  his  eyes  I  saw  a  world  of  unspoken  sorrow,  saw  such 
a  look  of  want,  such  a  look  of  longing,  it  often  filled  my  eyes 
with  tears  to  look  at  him.  Unlike  most  young  men  of  his 
age,  he  had  no  gay  companions.  I  was  aware  of  his  having 
but  a  single  intimate  friend.  During  our  mother's  life,  Frede 
rick  had  not  seemed  to  need  even  his  society ;  but  now  he 
often  came  and  spent  his  evenings  in  our  quiet,  parlor.  Henri 
Rochelle  was  a  number  of  years  Frederick's  senior.  He  was 
a  student  of  medicine,  and,  Frederick  told  me,  distinguished 
in  the  academy  for  his  superior  scholarship  and  faultless  cha 
racter.  I  remember  him  as  a  finely  formed  man,  with  a  cold 
face  and  a  composed  mien,  calmly  discussing  by  the  hour  the 
most  abstruse  scientific  and  metaphysical  themes.  His  dis 
course  had  no  personal  interest  to  me.  I  never  listened.  I 
was  glad  to  have  him  come  because  he  interested  Frederick. 
But,  quietly  sewing  in  one  corner,  I  busied  myself  with  my 
own  dreams. 

One  fact  impressed  me  strangely.  After  his  departure 
Frederick  always  seemed  more  than  usually  depressed.  Henri 
Rochelle  always  seemed  to  leave  a  shadow  behind  him  which 
fell  upon  Frederick's  heart.  It  was  a  mystery  to  me,  for 
Frederick  seemed  warmly  attached  to  Rochelle,  and,  notwith 
standing  the  after  shadow,  sought  his  company  unceasingly. 
If  he  had  a  sorrow  apart  from  our  mutual  one,  I  resolved  to 
find  it  out.  Heretofore  there  had  been  no  reserve  between  us. 
One  had  held  no  secret  which  the  other  had  not  shared.  But 
there  was  one  now,  I  knew.  I  thought  that  it  must  be  some 
thing  in  connexion  with  his  university  life,  and  began  to 
question  him  minutely  of  his  experience  as  a  student.  In 
reply,  he  said :  "  I  find  that  very  few  young  men  have  had  so 
little  contact  with  the  jostling,  every-day  world  ;  very  few 
who  have  always  found  their  highest  happiness  in  the  society 
of  a  beloved  mother.  She  well  knew  that  there  was  nothing 
I  needed  so  much  as  to  pass  through  a  hardening  process  in 
order  to  acquire  a  little  more  manhood.  It  has  been  a  hard 
task.  I  am  not  manly  now  in  my  classmates'  sense  of  the 
term.  They  ridicule  me  because  I  know  nothing  of  their  dis 
sipated  mode  of  life.  They  despise  me  because  I  will  not 

join  them  in  their  revels.    Many  of  them  glory  in  their  infi- 


Love.  23 

delity,  and  scorn  me  because  I  love  and  strive  to  serve  my 
mother's  God.  But,  if  I  fail  in  everything  else,  the  tender 
conscience  which  she  guarded  so  long  I  shall  seek  to  carry 
into  her  presence  unstained.  I  have  but  one  friend ;  Henri 
Rochelle  I  love  as  a  brother."  He  laid  his  cheek  against 
mine  ;  it  was  hot ;  there  was  fever  in  his  veins ;  there  was  a 
strange  fire  in  his  eyes  quivering^  out  from  under  the  almost 
transparent  lids. 

"  You  have  not  told  me  all,"  I  said.  "  The  students  may 
annoy  you.  But  there  is  a  sorrow  lying  deeper  in  your  heart. 
A  new  shadow  has  fallen  upon  your  life.  What  is  it? — 
you  have  ever  trusted  me,  Frederick !"  "  Trust  you  ?  Vic- 
toire,  I  trust  you  as  I  do  no  other  creature.  But  why  con 
fess  all  my  weakness  ?  You  are  too  strong  to  feel  it ;  you 
cannot  understand  it."  "  Don't  talk  of  my  strength,  Frede 
rick.  Remember,  I  have  not  been  tried.  My  weakness  has 
not  been  gauged ;  and,  for  understanding,  have  you  ever  had 
a  sorrow  that  I  did  not  feel  ?"  He  did  not  answer,  but  the 
chestnut  curls  shuddered  closer  against  my  cheek. 

At  last  he  spoke,  and  every  word  came  low  and  slow,  as  if 
born  with  a  pang  down  deep  in  his  heart :  "  Henri  Rochelle 
has  a  sister.  She  is  the  embodiment  of  my  life-long  dream — 
one  for  whose  sake  I  would  willingly  be  blind  to  the  rest  of 
the  universe,  could  I  behold  her  before  my  eyes  for  ever. 
There,  Victoire,  you  have  it — my  weakness,  my  sin." 

I  was  not  prepared  for  such  a  revelation.  What  sister 
ever  is  ?  I  supposed  that  I  was  all  the  world  to  Frederick ; 
and  was  annoyed,  chagrined,  to  find  myself  mistaken.  A 
spasm  of  jealousy  curdled  my  heart  at  the  thought  of  a  rival. 
My  father  and  mother  in  heaven,  my  art,  my  brother  upon, 
earth,  absorbed  the  world  of  my  affection.  My  deeper  nature 
had  never  been  touched. 

As  I  look  back  to  my  then  undeveloped  heart,  I  wonder 
that  I  could  sympathize  with  Frederick  at  all.  I  did  so  from 
intuition,  not  from  experience.  I  had  implored  his  confidence. 
I  would  not  recoil  from  it  now.  "  Why  is  it  a  sin  to^love  one 
who  is  lovely  ?"  I  asked.  "If  I  could  see  this  lady  I  presume 
that  I  should  love  her  myself.  At  least  I  should  wish  to 
paint  her  picture.  Does  she  love  you,  Frederick  ?" 

Again  I  felt  the  curls  quiver  against  my  cheek  as  he  an 
swered  :  "  I  know  not.  I  only  know  that  her  eyes  follow 
mine  for  ever,  and  her  soul  is  in  her  eyes.  But  it  is  madness, 
it  is  sin.  She  is  the  affianced  of  another.  In  one  month  she 
will  be  a  wife,  and  to  me  the  thought  is  hell." 


24  Victoire. 

"  But  why  ?  If  you  love  eacH  other,  why  must  she  marry 
another  ?" 

"  It  is  the  old  tragedy,  Victoire ;  the  old  tragedy  which 
has  been  acted  over  and  over  since  the  world  began.  The 
father  sells  his  child  for  gold,  heedless  that  he  sacrifices  a 
living  heart.  Day  and  night  she  implores  her  mother  to 
intercede  with  her  father  t%  save  her  from  a  man  whom  she 
loathes.  But  he  is  rich ;  he  belongs  to  the  nobility.  Her 
father  is  unrelenting.  There  is  no  hope." 

For  the  first  time  Frederick's  sorrow  was  beyond  the  reach 
of  my  healing.  It  had  struck  deeper  than  I  could  penetrate. 
Of  the  pain  of  a  love-wounded  heart  I  knew  nothing.  My  plea 
sures  were  purely  aesthetic.  My  worshipping  nature  was  con 
tent  to  adore  the  divine  beings  which  sprang  into  passionless 
life  beneath  the  creative  hand  of  genius.  '  Yet  my  very  igno 
rance  made  me  tender.  I  respected  an  emotion  which  I  could 
not  fathom.  Long,  long  I  pillowed  that  dear  head  upon  my 
heart.  How  I  loved  him ! 

The  day  for  the  annual  distribution  of  prizes  in  the  Acade 
my  had  come.  Frederick,  among  the  first  scholars  of  his 
class,  was  to  pronounce  an  oration.  Nobility,  royalty,  the 
genius,  the  beauty  of  the  capital  had  assembled.  I  had  eyes 
but  for  two — Frederick  and  Beatrice  Rochelle.  She  entered 
the  hall  with  her  brother.  I  recognised  her  instantly.  How 
could  I  help  it  ?  She  had  a  face  which  is  seen  but  once  in  a 
life-time.  Her  eyes  were  liquid,  lustrous,  sad.  The  concen-. 
trated  life  of  a  soul,  its  love,  its  longing,  its  unfathomed  yet 
immortal  mystery,  all  seemed  concentrated  in  those  prophetic 
orbs.  Young,  I  had  only  to  look  at  her  to  see  that  her  heart 
had  outlived  her  years.  No  pang  of  jealousy  stifled  the 
pulses  of  my  heart  while  I  gazed  upon  her.  Rather  I  longed 
to  fold  her  to  my  heart,  to  call  her  "  sister,"  to  tell  her  I 
would  love  her  for  ever. 

From  her  my  eyes  turned  to  Frederick  ;  and,  while  I  gazed 
upon  him,  I  involuntarily  stretched  out  my  hand  as  if  to 
break  the  barrier  which  kept  asunder  two  beings  whom  the 
gods  had  created  for  each  other.  He  leaned  against  a  statue 
of  Apollo,  a  breathing  incarnation  of  more  th^n  Apollo's 
beauty.  He  belonged  to  that  rare  order  of  men  who  are 
beautiful  without  being  effeminate.  His  was  the  exquisite  out 
line,  the  effulgent  beauty  of  the  Greek.  He  dwelt  in  a  taber 
nacle  of  etherial  clay,  which,  while  it  shrouded,  still  emitted 
the  spiritual  fire  burning  within  the  soul's  shekinah.  It  seemed 


Love.  25 

to  surround  his  person  with  an  effluence  of  light ;  it  hovered 
about  his  brow,  a  visible  panoply  of  superhuman  glory. 

The  stiff  declamations,  the  noisy  eloquence  of  his  compa 
nions  had  ended.  As  he  stepped  forth  upon  the  rostrum  my 
breath  seemed  suspended.  Every  nerve  was  strained  to  its 
utmost  tension  ;  my  very  life  seemed  to  depend  upon  his  tri 
umph.  His  voice  rose  clear  as  jt^ie  fine  ring  of  a  silver 
trumpet — soft  as  the  sigh  of  a  lute.  Up !  up !  it  went 
through  the  fretted  arches,  up  to  the  arabesque  dome.  So 
soft,  so  searching,  so  sweet  it  was,  it  was  easy  for  me  to  ima 
gine  that  a  god  was  speaking.  His  theme  was :  "  Represen 
tative  Men  of  France."  He  presented  Fenelon  and  Mirabeau 
in  contrast,  types  of  one  race  in  different  eras.  Mirabeau,  in 
his  shaggy  strength,  his  lion  greatness,  he  portrayed  in  lan 
guage  strong  as  the  soul  whose  fiery  lineaments  he  depicted. 

When  he  spoke  of  Fenelon  his  voice  softened.  His  words, 
in  their  silvery  flowing,  became  melodious  as  the  life  whose 
story  they  told.  He  compared  the  great  powers  of  the  uni 
verse — Intellect,  Will,  Soul.  The  supremacy  of  spirit  over 
matter.  He  became  enthusiastic.  His  features  seemed  trans 
figured.  Light,  such  as  I  never  saw  before  upon  a  human 
face,  hovered  around  his — but  only  for  an  instant.  The  raised 
hand  fell.  The  poised  form  staggered.  There  was  a  gurgling 
sound,  and  blood,  blood,  burst  from  mouth  and  nostril  in  a 
crimson  torrent.  The  soul  was  too  strong  for  its  casket — a 
blood-vessel  had  broken. 

I  cannot  describe  the  scene  which  ensued.  I  indistinctly 
remember  the  confusion,  the  groans  and  cries  of  the  audience. 
I  only  know  that  in  a  moment  my  brother  was  in  my  arms, 
and  that  Beatrice  Rochelle  was  by  my  side,  amid  the  crowd 
who  had  rushed  to  his  assistance.  Henri  Rochelle  was  there 
also.  His  strong  arms  bore  Frederick  from  the  hall ;  he 
helped  support  the  litter  upon  which  he  was  borne  to  our 
home.  "  Ride  with  my  sister,"  he  said  to  me  ;  and  he  gently 
led  me  to  a  carriage.  In  a  moment  I  was  by  the  side  of 
Beatrice.  We  had  no  introduction.  We  needed  none.  Little 
she  knew  how  well  I  knew  her.  Involuntarily  I  laid  my  hand 
in  hers,  as  one  gasping  sob  struggled  up  from  my  convulsed 
heart.  A  change  had  come  over  her  face.  Its  whiteness  was 
now  appalling ;  the  woe  in  the  gazelle  eyes  had  become  most 
piteous,  most  imploring. 

When  we  reached  the  house  I  asked  Beatrice  to  enter  and 
await  the  arrival  of  her  brother  and  of  mine.  I  would  have  en 
treated  her  had  it  been  necessary,  but  it  was  not.  If  I  had  not 


26  Victoire. 

. 

asked  her,  I  think  that  she  would  have  entered.  I  arranged 
a  couch  for  Frederick  in  the  parlor,  and  with  fainting  anxiety 
awaited  his  arrival.  When  the  young  men  bore  him  in  his 
eyes  were  closed,  his  face  that  of  death.  His  bearers  laid 
him  softly  down  and  departed,  save  Henri.  Slowly  his  eyes 
opened.  His  gaze  met  that  of  Beatrice,  who  stood  motion 
less  at  the  foot  of  his  couch.  Again  dawned  the  look  of 
celestial  joy.  For  an  instant  the  enfeebled  arms  were  out 
stretched.  She  went  to  his  side.  The  young  face  bent  down 
to  his.  The  tresses  of  gold  fell  upon  the  chestnut  curls,  as 
again  and  again  she  kissed  the  cold  brow.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken.  They  seemed  unconscious  of  our  presence — of  every 
thing  but  each  other.  The  sight  was  inexpressibly  touching. 
I  know  i£,  I  feel  it  now. 

These  twin  souls,  between  whom  fate  had  thrown  an  im 
passable  chasm,  yet  who  saw  life  only  in  each  other's  eyes — 
they  had  mingled  at  last — mingled  upon  the  border  of  the 
valley  of  shadows — so  near,  that  the  light  from  the  other 
shore  had  fallen  already  upon  their  young  faces,  and  their 
passionate  human  love  seemed,  even  now,  exalted  into  the 
glory  of  the  divine. 

But  there  was  a  coming  back.  There  is  always  a  coming 
back.  Wander  as  we  may,  forget,  as  we  sometimes  can,  the 
Nemesis  Life,  we  awake  from  our  vision  to  behold  her  stark 
before  us,  fierce,  inexorable,  avenging !  Foolish  heart ! 
dream  your  dreams,  life  will  be  avenged !  She  will  measure 
for  you  again  her  cankering  cares,  her  stale  routine,  her 
every-day  flatness.  Again  she  will  taunt  you  with  illusive 
hope,  with  broken  promises,  with  her  baffling  and  torturing 
mystery. 

This  was  a  new  revelation  to  Henri  Rochelle.  Amaze 
ment,  pain,  were  depicted  upon  his  cold  features  as  he  stood 
apart  and  looked  upon  his  sister  and  his  friend.  He  did  not 
interfere.  He  spoke  not.  He  only  looked. 

The  delirium  vanished.  The  reality,  her  reality,  she  saw 
face  to  face.  With  a  sudden  look  of  consciousness,  the  sor-' 
rowful  eyes  were  lifted  to  her  brother,  and  she  stretched  out 
her  hand  to  him.  He  went  to  her  side.  Like  a  broken  lily, 
the  young  head  fell  upon  his  breast.  "  Beatrice !  sweet 
sister !"  he  said  ;  and,  taking  Frederick's  hand,  he  laid  it 
within  .hers.  "  Would  that  I  had  known  this  before.  Why 
have  neither  of  you  told  me?  Beatrice,  you  shall  be  saved !" 
Frederick  caught  the  words.  "Aye!1'  he  murmured,  and 
the  white  hand  pointed  upward.  - 


Dying.  27 


DYING. 

"  Tes  I  he  was  dying ;  yet 
Death  seemed  not  like  death  in  him ; 
For  the  spirit  of  life  in  every  limb 
Lingered,  a  mist  of  sense  and  thought. 
His  soul  1  It  seemed  already  free, 
Like  the  shadow  of  fire  surrounding  me." 

The  wasting  form,  the  hollow  cough,  again  inhabited  our 
dwelling.     Winter  had  passed ;  so  had  spring ;  the  summer 
had  deepened,  and  there  was  no  change  for  the  better.     "  It 
is  the  only  hope,"  said  the  old  physician  who  had  attended 
our  mother.     "  The  air  of  Languedoc,  the  scenes  of  childhood, 
may  revive  him ;  yet  I  have  little  hope ;  he  is  one  of  those 
whom  the  gods  take  early."     I  had  but  one  thought  now — 
how  could  I  save  my  brother ;  how  secure  for  him  life  and 
Beatrice  ?     We   gave    up   our   apartments   in   the   Rue   St. 
Honore.     With  tearful  regret  I  lingered  in  the  little  mosaic 
court.     The   dusky  myrtles,  the  pansies  which  I  had   once 
despised,  were  sacred  now.     They  had  brightened  the  last 
hours  of  my  mother's  life,  and  their  faint  aroma  was  grateful 
to  the  soul  of  Frederick.    Association  will  make  the  dreariest 
spot  precious.     The  soul_  can  sanctify  all  things.     It  will  link 
a  beloved  name  with  the  commonest  thing,  and  its  love  make 
that  thing  immortal.     Frederick  and  Beatrice  did  not  meet 
again.     She,  also,  was  ill — too  ill  to  leave  her  room.     And  on 
this   account   her   marriage  was    deferred.     Yet   every  day 
Henri  brought   to  Frederick   some   token   from   her   heart. 
Silent,  eloquent  messages  of  love  were  exchanged  between 
them   \intil   the   day  of  our   departure.     On   that   morning 
Henri  and  Frederick  talked  long  together.     They  seemed  to 
cling  to  each  other  as  if  the  precious  conference  was  the  last. 
Their  tones  were  low  and  sometimes  broken.     Once  I  over 
heard  these  words  :  "  Fill  my  place,  Henry ;  love  her  for  my 
sake  and  for  her  own  ;"  and  also  :  "  '  Where  there  is,  neither 
marrying,  nor   giving  in  marriage,'  you  will   meet.     There 
will  be  no  earthly  bridal ;"  and  the  soft  answer  :  "  It  is  well." 
The  summer  bowed  beneath  the  burden  of  its  prime.     The 
trees  drooped  under  the  weight  of  garniture.     The  flowers 
were  faint  with  their  own  perfume.     The  air  from  the  south 
ern   seas,   laden  with   the  aroma  of  a  thousand  vineyards, 
swooned  long  before  it  reached  the  cool  arms  of  the  hills. 
Even  the  hours,  freighted  heavily  with  balm,  moved  slowly 


28  Victoire. 

by ;  yet  this  enervated  tone  in  nature  harmonized  with  that 
of  Frederick's  system.  We  travelled  in  an  open  carriage,  the 
length  of  each  day's  drive  being  proportioned  to  his  strength. 
Never  before  had  Frederick's  soul  and  mine  come  so  near 
together.  His  nature  had  far  outlived  mine.  In  all  that  con 
stitutes  life,  maturity  of  thought,  and  of  feeling,  he  was  many 
years  my  senior ;  still,  as  far  as  I  knew,  I  gave  him  perfect 
sympathy.  I  had  seen  Beatrice.  I  loved  her  with  the  ardor 
of  an  impassioned  soul.  I  had  a  faint  conception  of  the  sacra 
ment  of  bliss  which  might  have  been  their  portion.  But  the 
closest  link  was  this — he,  my  all,  my  only  one,  was  dying. 
How  assiduously  I  watched  him.  How  eagerly  I  seized  every 
fluctuation  of  disease  as  an  omen  of  good.  "  He  cannot,  he 
must  not  die,  my  own,  my  glorious  one  !"  was  ever  the  silent 
ejaculation  of  my  heart. 

He  had  not  given  up  the  hope  of  life  without  a  fearful 
struggle.  Who  that  is  young,  who  that  knows  how  to  live, 
ever  does  ?  Who  that  just  tastes  the  delirious  draught,  does 
not  pant  to  drain  it  to  the  very  lees  1  Frederick  had  prayed, 
yea,  had  agonized  for  life — for  the  life  that  he  knew,  the  life 
which  he  felt  in  his  own  young  veins,  to  do,  to  be,  to  suffer, 
to  enjoy  as  a  mortal  can — for  this  life  he  had  prayed.  But 
even  disease  is  kind.  When  she  fastens  her  inexorable  grasp 
upon  us  she  unloosens  many  ties  which  bind  us  to  life'.  Our 
benumbed  senses  cling  with  less  tenacity  to  earth's  beautiful 
forms.  The  world  is  fair,  yet  its  loveliness  is  not  for  us.  We 
are  soon  to  inhabit  another  country,  and  we  turn  our  eyes 
thitherward.  With  Frederick  the  struggle  was  over.  He 
had  prayed  that  it  might  be  possible,  and  yet  the  cup  had  not 
passed  by.  He  had  passed  the  crisis  which,  soon  or  late, 
must  come  to  all.  One  by  one  life's  most  precious  objects 
seemed  to  drop  from  his  grasp.  If,  with  eyes  of  ineffable'  ten 
derness,  he  still  gazed  upon  the  objects  of  his  love,  he  yearned 
that  they  might  follow  him  rather  than  that  he  might  go  back 
to  them.  His  spiritual  vision  was  enlarged,  and,  with  mar 
vellous  distinctness,  he  seemed  to  see  the  unutterable  glory  of 
the  hereafter. 

"  It  seems  a  long  way  back  to  life.  This  body  will  never 
be  any  better.  Cease  to  expect  it,  Victoire,  and  resignation 
will  take  the  place  of  your  wearing  anxiety."  He  said  these 
words  to  me  one  evening  in  a  wayside  inn,  as  we  rested  by 
an  open  window,  watching  the  sun  shut  his  eye  of  glory 
behind  the  hills.  His  words  struck  an  open  wound  in  my 
heart.  I  gasped  before  I  answered:  "You,  who  have  so 


Dying.  29 

much  to  live  for,  how  can  you  speak  so  calmly  of  dying !  To 
me  death  is  terrible,  either  for  myself  or  for  others.  Heaven 
may  be  beautiful ;  '  but  I  am  in  love  with  this  green  earth.' 
Oh,  it  seems  terrible  to  die  !"  "  Yes,  to  you,  who  are  in  full 
possession  of  life,  thus  it  seems ;  but  I  have  reached  the  point 
to  which  all  come  at  last,  when  every  object  assumes  its  true 
proportions.  Eternity  and  Time  have  changed  places.  The 
veil  hiding  the  unseen  world  touches  my  face.  And  as 
I  look  back,  I  see  that  which  men  call  life  is  not  worth  the 
ado  we  make  about  it.  Life !"  he  added,  with  a  touch  of 
his  old  enthusiasm ;  "  Here  we  only  begin  life.  When  we 
are  prepared  to  live,  we  are  called  up  higher  to  drink  from 
its  perpetual  fountain.  "When  we  are  developed  perfectly  to 
enjoy,  we  enter  into  its  full  fruition.  The  highest  end  of  life 
is  life.  If  we  are  prepared  to  live,  we  are  ready  to  die.  To 
me  it  seems  sweet  to  go." 

"  Oh !"  I  exclaimed,  "  how  can  you  speak  thus !  Are  you 
willing  to  leave  Beatrice,  who  loves  you  ?  Are  you  willing 
to  leave  me  alone  without  a  guide,  without  a  comforter  ?  A 
slight  spasm  passed  over  his  face.  "  This,"  he  said,  "  is  the 
sting  of  death.  I  cling  to  my  idols.  But  Beatrice  will  come 
to  me.  We  shall  not  be  separated.  You,  Victoire,  I  must 
leave.  But,  whether  I  live  or  die,  you  wiU  fulfil  your  destiny. 
You  have  a  destiny,  and  bright  stars  meet  in  your  horo 
scope.  You  have  a  glorious  soul ;  you  must  return  it  to  God 
enlarged,  perfected !  God  only  can  be  your  teacher.  You 
will  be  taught  by  suffering.  Great  endeavors,  great  tempta 
tions,  great  sorrow,  and  a  great  triumph,  all  are  in  your 
future.  You  need  all  to  teach  you,  yourself;  to  teach  you 
God,  and  how  to  trust  Him.  It  is  a  cruel  world  to  leave  you 
in  alone.  My  heart  grieves  for  you,  yet  my  reason  scarcely 
trembles.  Your  nature  is  strong.  God  is  stronger.  He  is 
kind.  He  will  keep  you.  If  I  were  to  live  I  could  soothe, 
and  love,  and  help  you.  I  could  not  mould  you.  Dear  one, 
you  will  miss  me,  but  you  can  live  without  me.  You  could 
live  a  solitary,  self-sustained  life  if  you  were  the  only  being 
in  the  universe.  You  will  mourn  for  me  deeply,  but  you  will 
outlive  your  sorrow.  I  shall  become  to  you  a  fragrant  memo 
ry.  As  a  ministering  spirit  I  may  do  more  for  you  than  if  I 
walked  by  your  side,  fainting  beneath  the  burden  of  my  own 
humanity." 

There  was  hope  in  his  words,  yet  my  heart  refused  to  be 
comforted.  I  was  so  intensely  human,  I  could  see  no  beauty 
in  decay,  no  charm  in  death.  I  could  feel  110  pleasure  in  the 


3° 


Victoire. 


thought  of  communing  with  disembodied  spirits,  however 
dear.  I  wanted  my  loved  ones  before  my  eyes  where  I  could 
see  them,  touch  them,  caress  them,  tell  them  how  much  I 
loved  them. 

The  next  day,  just  as  twilight  was  dropping  her  first  faint 
veil  of  shadows,  we  came  in  sight  of  Les  Delices.  How 
peacefully  it  slept  in  the  lap  of  the  valley  !  The  ruddy  turret 
gleamed  through  its  redundant  vines.  There  stood  Ceres, 
my  first  dream  of  marble  beauty.  There  tinkled  the  foun 
tains,  filling  the  air  with  softest  euphony.  There  crowded  the 
gorgeous  midsummer  flowers.  There  fell  the  cascade,  now 
shrunken  to  a  few  silver  threads,  ever  breaking,  ever  re-unit 
ing  over  the  mossy  ledges  of  the  rocks.  Below  swept  the 
Rhone — bold,  impetuous,  glorious  as  ever ;  while  above,  the 
grand  mountains  stretched  out  their  hoary  hands  in  a  per 
petual  benediction. 

There  were  kind  tenants  to  welcome  us.  But  alas,  the 
change  !  Where  was  our  mother  ?  Where  the  lost  appli 
ances  of  our  home  ?  As  we  passed  the  threshold,  Frederick's 
eye  glanced  eagerly  around  as  if  in  quest  of  some  treasure 
missed.  A  shadow,  then  a  gleam,  passed  over  his  transparent 
features.  'I  saw  that  it  was  no  longer  home  to  him.  He  lay 
down  upon  a  couch  in  the  old  room — the  room  in  which  his 
eyes  first  opened  to  the  morning ;  the  room  which  had  first 
witnessed  our  baby-sports,  our  childish  studies,  our  youthful 
conferences. 

I  sat  by  his  side  until  he  slumbered.  Then  I  went  out 
into  the  old  garden,  bending  my  steps  toward  the  grove  of 
firs.  The  moon  had  come  up  above  the  mountains,  and  turned 
the  night  into  a  paler  day.  In  her  full  light  the  white  brow 
of  Ceres  glowed  like  amber.  The  waters  of  the  fountains 
seemed  changed  to  jewels  as  they  fell.  The  limpid  threads 
of  the  cascade,  trembling  languidly  over  the  rock  ledges, 
looked  like  creeping  veins  of  gold.  Not  a  leaf  stirred.  Not 
a  sound  was  heard  save  the  lull  of  the  fountains,  the  hoarse 
roll  of  the  river,  the  calls  of  the  boatmen  coming  at  intervals 
through  the  trees.  My  eye  took  in  every  shade  in  nature, 
but  I  only  saw  it ;  it  did  not  comfort  me. 

Three  years  before,  I  had  left  that  spot  a  buoyant  and 
believing  child,  with  faith  in  the  future  unbounded.  How 
had  she  fulfilled  her  promises  !  An  orphan,  I  had  come  back 
to  bury  the  last  being  I  loved  upon  earth.  This  was  my  grief, 
my  crushing  sorrow.  No  thougnt  of  heaven,  of  the  perfected 
life  which  he  so  joyfully  anticipated,  could  lift  from  my  soul 


Dying.  31 

its  weight  of  desolation.  At  midnight  I  stole  back  to  Frede 
rick's  bedside.  There,  with  his  hand  in  mine  and  my  head 
upon  his  pillow,  I  wept  myself  noiselessly  to  sleep. 

He  seemed  no  longer  to  belong  to  earth.  His  mortal  life 
was  fused  into  one  vision  of  a  diviner  existence.  Of  the  mys 
tery  of  death,  of  eternity,  of  God,  of  Christ,  he  seemed  to 
have  more  than  a  human  conception,  I  would  hold  my  breath 
and  listen.  And  there  were  moments,  while  hearkening  to 
his  words,  that  my  earth-fettered  soul  seemed  to  rise  into  the 
atmosphere  of  spiritual  joy  in  which  he  breathed.  But  the 
cords  would  tighten  again,  and  the  bound  heart  fall  back  to 
its  old  level,  moaning  in  anguish,  while  it  looked  hopelessly 
up  to  the  beatific  height  toward  which  it  had  no  power  to 
soar.  But  the  change  watched  for,  dreaded,  came.  The  last 
change  which  can  come  to  the  face  of  the  living.  When  the 
features  became  more  painfully  distinct,  the  eyes  more  fear 
fully  brilliant ;  when  around  the  mouth  is  seen  a  settling — • 
that  dreadful  settling,  that  tension  of  muscle — telling  of  the 
grasp  of  the  Destroyer. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  we  lifted  Frederick's  couch  to 
the  verandah  that  he  might  see  the  glory.  The  sun  drew 
near  his  setting,  and  floods  of  splendor  swept  down,  irradiat 
ing  all  things.  Above  the  loftier  mountain  tops  rose  vast 
masses  of  cumulus  cloud,  dazzlingly  white,  flushed  with  violet, 
veined  with  gold.  They  loomed  in  the  distant  ether,  and 
looked  the  flaming  bastions  of  the  illimitable  city.  The  sun 
went  down.  The  wonder  deepened.  The  dark  pines  stood 
transfigured  in  fire.  The  river  ran  in  blazing  gold.  Upon  its 
banks,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  village  and  vineyard,  turret 
and  tower  burned  with  the  sunset.  I  looked  into  Frederick's 
face.  His  dear  head  rested  upon  the  pillows,  while  his  eye, 
with  indescribable  eagerness,  seemed  drinking  for  the  last 
time  the  wondrous  glory  of  God's  world.  I  watched  him  till 
the  tired  eyelids  fell  over  his  tired  eyes.  Then  taking  the 
worn  Bible  which  lay  by  his  side,  I  read,  less  for  his  consola 
tion  than  my  own,  these  words : 

"  Lord,  Thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  in  all  genera 
tions.  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever 
Thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and  world,  from  everlasting  to 
everlasting,  Thou  art  God-.  We  spend  our  years  as  a  tale 
that  is  told.  The  days  of  our  years  are  threescore  years  and 
ten  ;  and  if  by  reason  of  strength  they  be  fourscore  years, 
yet  is  that  strength  labor  and  sorrow,  for  it  is  soon  cut  off, 
and  we  fly  away.  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and 


32  Victoire. 

that  he  shall  stand  at  the  latter  day  upon  the  earth  :  and 
'though  after  my  skin  worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh 
shall  I  see  God.  Mine  eyes  shall  behold  him  and  not  another. 
Jesus  said :  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life.  He  that  be- 
lieveth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead  yet  shall  he  live.  We 
shall  not  all  sleep,  but  we  shall  all  be  changed.  In  a  moment, 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  at  the  last  trump  ;  for  the  trum 
pet  shall  sound,  and  the  dead  shall  be  raised  incorruptible. 
For  this  corruption  must  put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal 
must  put  on  immortality.  So,  when  this  corruption  has  put 
on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal  has  put  on  immortality,  then 
shall  be  brought  to  pass  the  saying  that  death  is  swallowed 
up  of  life.  O  death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?  O  grave,  where  is 
thy  victory?  The  sting  of  death  is  sin.  Thanks  be  to 
God  who  giveth  us  the  victory  through  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ." 

" '  Amen.  Even  so,  come,  Lord  Jesus.'  Beatrice  !"  It 
was  his  dear  voice  that  spoke.  And  the  depth  of  joy  in  the 
tone  thrilled  every  fibre  of  my  frame.  His  arms  were  out 
stretched  ;  his  eyes  were  uplifted,  as  if  they  saw  other  eyes  ; 
his  countenance  was  radiated,  glorified.  A  ray  of  celestial 
love  swept  over  his  features.  The  breast  rose  and  fell  in  one 
convulsive  struggle ;  there  was  a  sigh — he  h;ul  .gone. 

I  thought  he  had  fainted,  and  called  wildly  for  help,  for 
"  water !  water !"  "  Here  is  water,"  said  a  voice.  It  was  not 
Nannette  who  spoke.  By  my  side  stood  a  stranger.  He 
offered  me  water  in  a  light  urn  which  always  stood  upon  the 
verandah,  near  the  foot  of  the  cascade f  I  bathed  the  dear 
brow ;  I  laid  the  beloved  head  upon  my  breast ;  I  covered 
the  face  with  wildest  kisses  ;  I  called  him  by  every  endearing 
name ;  I  besought  him  to  live — to  live  a  little  longer  for  my 
sake  ;  that  I  could  not,  would  not  live  without  him.  Madly 
I  contended  with  the  last  enemy.  He  came  not  back.  Vainly 
I  ciied  :  "  My  brother  !  my  brother  !" 

How  long  I  sat  with  the  dead  strained  to  my  heart,  I  do 
not  know.  Nannette  told  me  that  it  was  a  long  time.  Also 
she  told  me  that  we  were  not  alone.  That,  beside  our  weep 
ing  tenants,  a  stranger  stood  there  with  folded  arms  and 
humid  eyes.  That  it  was  he  who  loosened  my  strained  arms 
from  the  dead  body  of  my  brother.  When  she  came  to  this, 
I  remembered  the  gentle  grasp  which  opened  my  locked 
fingers,  and  the  dark  eyes  which  looked  down  into  mine  with 
such  a  depth  of  power  ;  how  I  resisted  him  ;  and  how,  even 
then,  those  eyes  subdued  me,  and  I  seemed  powerless  to 


33 

contend.  He  led  me  unresistingly  to  Nannette,  and  whether 
he  were  of  heaven  or  of  earth  seemed  alike  to  me ;  I  was 
only  conscious  of  a  positive  power  exercised  over  me,  to 
which,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  it  seemed  sweet  to  yield. 
It  was  this  stranger  who  composed  Frederick's  limbs  ;  his 
hands  which  closed  the  lids  over  those  glorious  eyes  for  their 
last  repose.  Then  he  went  silently  away,  no  one  knew 
whither.  My  grief  had  struck  below  the  source  of  tears.  I 
moved  about  as  emotionless  as  a  stone.  Everything  in  the 
past,  the  present,  the  future,  was  a  blank.  "  Frederick  is 
dead."  That  was  all  I  knew.  I  could  not  pray — Frederick 
is  dead — what  could  I  ask  /or  now !  I  gathered  white,  unsul 
lied  flowers,  laid  them  around  his  brow  and  upon  his  breast. 
I  twined,  again  and  again,  the  chestnut  curls  around  my  fin 
gers  as  of  old.  I  walked  around  his  coifin.  I  sat  beside  it, 
and  would  not  be  called  away.  I  wept  not,  I  spoke  not.  I 
went  out  to  the  edge  of  the  grove  of  firs,  and  watched  the 
old  man  dig  his  grave — watched  the  shining  spade  cut  down 
into  the  earth — marked  the  sides  of  the  grave,  so  smooth  and 
dark ;  looked  down  to  its  bottom,  so  narrow,  and  deep,  and 
dreadful. 

It  was  his  request  to  be  buried  here.  In  his  native  earth, 
where  the  mountains  could  guard  his  rest ;  where  the  voice 
of  the  river,  the  surging  arms  of  the  firs,  the  lapse  of  fount 
ains,  the  psalms  of  birds,  and  the  sigh  of  the  summer  wind 
could  sing  his  requiem  in  one  grand  symphony.  The  name 
of  Vernoid  was  honored  in  that  valley ;  and  many  came  from 
afar  to  see  the  earth  close  over  the  last  son  of  the  race.  Many 
eyes,  which  I  never  saw  again,  filled  with  tears  (needed,  per 
chance,  for  themselves  and  for  their  children),  while  they 
looked  upon  me  in  my  tearless  woe,  alone  in  the  world,  an 
orphan  girl  whose  feet  had  not  touched  their  nineteenth  sum 
mer. 

Tears  came  at  last,  blessed  tears !  The  day  after  his  burial 
I  stood  beside  his  grave,  my  wild  rebellion-crazing  heart  and 
•  brain — "  Why  must  they  die  ?''  I  cried.  "  The  beautiful,  the 
immortal  !  Why  are  they  not  transfigured  before  us,  that 
our  eyes  might  behold  the  glory  of  the  incorruptible  body  ? 
Why  go  down  to  darkness,  and  to  the  worm?  Why  pass 
through  this  loathsome  gateway  to  enter  the  fields  of  para 
dise?  Why  do  they  not  ascend  softly,  softly  through  the 
delicious  ether,  until  they  reach  the  bosom  of  the  Infinite  Fa 
ther?  Oh,  why  is  Heaven  so  undefinable,  so  far  away? 
Why  does  no  golden  ladder  reach  down  from  its  celestial 

3 


34  Victoire. 

gate,  with  angels  descending  to  tell  to  our  smitten  souls  sweet 
stories  of  our  beatified  lost  ones  ?  Then,  in  my  agony,  I  felt 
that  I  must  reach  my  arms  far  down  into  that  deep  grave, 
and  bring  back  my  idol  one  to  life  and  love.  Alas !  I  was  so 
human,  faith  breathed  no  word  to  cheer  me.  I  could  not  di 
vorce  the  soul  from  that  precious  body.  Blame  me  not — are 
we  not  all  earthly  ?  Are  we  not  all  slaves  to  the  palpable  ? 
Moved  so  deeply  by  what  we  see,  and  hear,  and  feel — are  we 
not  torpid  to  comprehend,  to  be  satisfied  with  the  unseen,  the 
spiritual,  the  immortal !  Fruitless,  mad,  was  my  woe.  Con 
scious  of  its  impotence,  with  my  face  prone  upon  the  grave, 
I  lay  downand  wept. 


A   LOVE   LETTER. 

Before  his  death,  Frederick  had  revealed  to  me  the  state 
of  our  finances.  In  Les  Delices  our  entire  fortune  was  vested. 
The  rent  which  we  had  received  from  the  estate,  had  not 
equalled  our  Paris  expenses.  After  all  incumbrances  were 
paid,  something  would  remain  for  me  ;  but  not  a  sum  suffi 
cient  for  my  support.  Henri  Rochelle  was  to  be  executor, 
and  it  was  Frederick's  request  that  I  should  write  to  him  im 
mediately  upon  his  decease.  The  illness  of  Beatrice  prevented 
him  from  accompanying  us  to  Languedoc.  The  day  after  the 
burial,  I  penned  these  words : 

"  Monsieur  Rochelle — Frederick  died  August  the  first,  at 
seven  o'clock  p.m.  VICTOIRE." 

By  the  return  mail  I  received  this  reply : 

"Victoire!  they  ascended  together.  The  souls  which  had 
learned  to  live  for  each  other  upon  earth,  are  now  one  in  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven.  Beatrice  died  at  ten  minutes  before 
sev.en,  on  the  evening  of  August  the  first.  The  sanctified  is 
now  also  the  glorified.  The  one  link  which  bound  me  to  my 
family  is  broken.  The  child  of  a  former  marriage,  I  am  now 
alone.  Victoire,  I  have  but  one  care,  one  love  left  in  my 
heart — these  are  for  you.  You  will  be  startled  at  this  sudden 
revelation.  You  have  scarcely  given  me  a  thought,  and 
never,  save  as  your  brother's  friend.  I  love  you  more  for 
your  guilelessness.  The  morning  we  parted,  Frederick  asked 


A  Love  Letter.  35 

me  to  fill  his  place  to  you,  to  be  to  you  a  brother.  I  assured 
him  that  was  impossible ;  that,  already  you  were  dearer  to 
me  than  sister  could  ever  be.  That  from  the  moment  in 
which  he  held  up  to  my  gaze  your  pictured  face,  the  convic 
tion  had  entered  my  soul  that  you  would  yet  be  my  wife.  Al 
though  not  a  visionary  man,  since  I  had  breathed  in  your 
living  presence,  this  conviction  had  ripened  into  a  certainty, 
and  I  asked  him  to  speak  of  the  subject  to  you.  He  said  '  I 
can  only  ask  her  to  allow  you  to  fill  my  place.  Were  I  to 
request  more,  through  her  love  to  me,  my  dying  wish  might 
be  to  her  a  command.  In  a  choice  upon  which  all  her  future 
depends,  she  should  act  untrammelled.  I  have  seen  enough 
of  the  bartering  of  hearts.  I  cannot  influence  her  decision  by 
a  word.  She  knows  that  you  are  my  only  friend.  You  are 
worthy  of  each  other,  if  you  can  win  her  love.'  This  I  will 
do — I  will  win  your  love — Victoire.  I  am  not  of  that  order 
of  men  who  say  more  than  they  feel.  My  love  cannot  be  mea 
sured  by  words,  but  it  can  be  lived.  You  shall  yet  feel  the 
strength  and  depth  of  my  devotion.  Your  situation  justifies 
the  promptness  of  this  declaration.  Reason  commends  what 
my  heart  desires.  You  are  a  woman  and  must  have  a  pro 
tector.  Who  more  fitting  than  your  only  brother's  only 
friend  ?  HEXRI  ROCHELLE." 

If  this  letter  had  dropped  into  my  hand  from  the  clouds,  f 
should  not  have  been  more  astonished.  It  aroused  me  from 
my  apathy  of  woe.  It  made  me  look  toward  my  future. 
Life  stretched  out  before  me.  Life,  not  death,  was  my  por 
tion.  Frederick  had  said  that  I  had  a  destiny  to  fulfil ;  that 
§ood  stars  met  in  my  horoscope.  What  was  this  destiny  ? 
imply  to  marry  ?  Marriage  had  not  entered  into  my  plan 
of  life.  My  mind,  entirely  absorbed  by  another  idea,  had 
not  reached  out  toward  this  Ultima  Thule  of  a  woman's  hope. 
At  present,  art  was  more  to  me  than  lover  or  husband  could 
possibly  be.  I  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  merging  into 
a  complacent  matron,  kept  "  low  and  wise"  by  chubby  children 
and  household  care.  The  thought  of  submitting  my  will  to 
the  law  of  another,  of  allowing  my  individuality  to  become 
fused  into  that  of  one  mere  human  being,  to  me  was  odious. 
I  knew  nothing  of  the  self-abnegating  love,  which  with  infi 
nite  trust  can  look  into  the  eye  of  a  mortal  and  say — "En 
treat  me  not  to  leave  thee — whither  thou  goest  I  will  go. 
Where  thou  diest  will  I  die.  There  will  I  be  buried.  Naught 
but  death  can  part  thee  and  me." 


36  Victoire. 

No  !  Art  was  my  chosen.  I  wished  to  live  my  own  life, 
develop  the  soul  which  God  had  given  me,  without  inter 
ference,  without  restriction.  The  accident  of  sex,  the  fact 
of  being  a  woman  did  not  make  me  less  determined,  nor  less 
aspiring.  Why  did  no  mistress  of  sculpture  and  of  painting 
sit  enthroned  in  the  centuries  beside  Phidias,  and  Angelo, 
and  Raphael !  Through  all  ages  had  woman  beheld  her  own 
form  upon  every  shrine  of  art,  raised  as  the  synonym  of  im 
mortal  beauty,  without  panting  to  embody  in  artistic  forms 
the  soul  of  the  beautiful  which  lived  within  her  ?  No  !  Had 
genius  a  sex  ?  I  did  not  believe  it.  Sappho,  Aspasia,  Zeno- 
bia,  Hypatia  were  types  of  the  universal  soul  which  burned  as 
often  in  the  breasts  of  women  as  of  men.  Then,  had  I 
known  them,  I  would  have  repeated  the  words  of  Tennyson's 
Lilia : 

"  There  are  thousands  now, 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats  thorn  down, 
You  men  have  done  it ;  how  I  hate  you  all. 
Ah !  were  I  something:  great,  I  would  shame  you  then, 
Who  love  to  keep  us  children." 

These  thoughts  and  feelings,  which  sprang  spontaneously 
in  my  own  nature,  and  lived  a  strong  life  without  any  foster- 
jing  from  external  circumstances,  seemed  entirely  to  possess  me 
after  reading  the  letter  of  Henri  Rochelle.  No  girl  was  ever 
wholly  displeased  with  her  first  love-letter.  It  was  a  strange, 
a  sudden,  a  pleasant  thought  to  me,  that  still  the  world  con 
tained  one  being  who  cared  for  me.  Yet  the  letter  chafed 
far  more  than  it  pleased.  Its  tone  of  calm  assurance  irritated 
.  me.  The  one  sentence — "  You  are  a  woman  and  need  a  pro 
tector;  who  else  can  it  be  but  your  only  brother's  only 
friend?'' — was  enough  to  stir  to  its  depths  my  defiant  pride. 
Evidently,  on  my  part,  he  thought  marriage  a  necessity.  A 
woman,  I  could  not  take  care  of  myself;  to  whom  else  could 
I  go  but  to  him  ?  -  "  He  shall  see !"  I  exclaimed.  "  I  can 
take  care  of  myself.  God  will  give  all  the  help  which  I 
need" 

What  he  had  said  of  my  feelings  concerning  him  was  true. 
If  through  my  girlish  brain  there  had  ever  floated  the  face  of 
an  impossible  hero,  certainly  it  was  not  the  face  of  Henri 
Rochelle.  The  profound  respect  with  which  I  had  ever  re 
garded  him,  removed  him  far  away  from  me.  In  the  chilly 
vacuity  which  separated  us,  love  could  not  breathe.  He  was 
cast  in  the  Roman  mould.  A  dominant  will,  a  metallic  iutel 


A  Love  Letter.  37 

lect,  could  be  traced  in  the  bold  outlines  of  the  commanding 
brow,  and  in  the  clear  cold  light  of  the  penetrating  eye.  He 
was  one  to  whom  a  strictly  feminine  nature  would  cling  and 
obey,  while  he  would  sharpen  to  keenest  antagonism  one  of 
his  own  kind.  He  was  a  man  whose  heart  never  proved 
traitor  to  his  head.  It  might  be  a  strong,  a  loving,  a  passion 
ate,  an  importuning  heart ;  yet  it  could  not  traduce  the  des 
potic  will  that  pressed  it  down  like  a  tooth  of  steel.  The 
will  bowed  only  to  the  higher  law  of  conscience,  and  his  con 
science  was  taught  by  the  oracles  of  God.  Every  feature, 
every  motion,  indicated  power  ;  yet  it  was  power  in  reserve, 
a  strong  nature  in  abeyance.  Possessing  the  largest  powers 
of  generalization,  it  was  with  an  eifort  that  he  descended  to 
discuss  particulars.  Plots  might  thicken  around  him;  he 
was  too  far  away  to  know  it.  Looks,  motions,  actions,  all 
the  minutiae  which  form  the  finer  shades  of  character  which 
are  so  koenly  apparent  to  the  subtle-eyed — he  was  usually  too 
concentrated,  too  abstracted  to  perceive.  But  when  aroused 
to  observe,  nothing  escaped  his  vision.  When  he  took  the 
pains  to  look,  he  saw  clearly,  he  saw  far,  he  saw  and  compre 
hended  all !  He  was  innately  (in  shame  I  confess  it),  to  me 
he  was  distressingly  good.  If  his  virtues  had  been  less  clear 
ly  defined  in  the  cold  light  of  intellect,  if  they  had  only  been 
warmed  a  little  more  in  the  sunshine  of  the  heart,  it  would 
have  been  different.  But  every  thought,  every  emotion,  was 
first  resolved  through  the  crystal  medium  of  that  unbeclouded 
judgment,  weighed  in  its  most  exquisite  balance,  before  sub 
mitted  to  human  gaze.  The  man  stood  before  you  accurately 
measured,  startlingly  defined.  There  were  no  sudden  reveal- 
ings,  no  spontaneous  gushes  of  feeling,  no  certain  glimpses 
into  fathomless  depths  of  soul  beyond — no  variation  of  rich 
moods ;  now  gay,  now  sad,  now  fitful ;  fervent,  impetuous, 
eloquent — the  ever  glancing,  ever  shifting  light  and  shadow 
of  a  royally  endowed  nature.  Calm,  equable,  self-poised,  ab 
sorbed,  great  .and  good,  his  nature  stood  before  me.  There 
was  not  a  point  around  which  the  imagination  could  play.  It 
suggested  nothing  more.  In  its  kind  it  was  perfect.  I  saw 
it  all ;  and  in  that  hour  it  did  not  satisfy  me. 

Henri  Rochelle  was  one  of  a  large  class  of  men — men  of 
the  highest  honor,  of  the  rarest  virtue,  who  still  are  seldom 
favorites  with  women.  With  all  their  goodness  they  repel. 
Yet  it  is  not  their  excellence  which  makes  them  disagreeable, 
but  their  defects.  They  cannot  descend  to  the  particulars  of 
suavity  and  grace  of  manner ;  to  the  unbought,  ever  longed- 


38  Victoire. 

for  charities  of  daily  life.  From  the  cool  citadel  of  their 
brain,  they  look  down  with  contempt  upon  the  foibles  and 
follies  of  women.  The  light  which  their  souls  emit,  is  the 
sheen  of  an  iceberg  which  glitters  and  freezes  in  the  sun. 
Virtue,  which  emanates  solely  from  the  brain,  will  always 
be  below^par ;  while  a  genial  spirit  will  win  its  way  with 
a  thousand  hearts,  though  it  carry  with  it  a  fearful  incubus 
of  sin.  It  is  a  sad  truth ;  but  brilliant  qualities  will  fascinate 
and  absorb,  while  ungarnished  goodness  is  often  neglected, 
despised,  forgotten ! 

Men,  the  opposite  of  Henri  Rochelle,  too  often  control  the 
hearts  of  women.  The  wofld  may  follow  them  with  hard 
names,  and  harder  stories ;  still  women  love  them — women 
who  would  start  from  the  accusation  of  impurity  as  from  a 
serpent's  sting.  They  belong  to  the  class  of  whom  Byron 
says: — "There  are  some  who  have  the  reputation  of  being 
wicked,  with  whom  we  would  be  only  too  happy  to  spend 
our  lives."  The  divine  fire  of  poetry  kindles  their  eye, 
glows  in  their  words,  inspires  their  whole  being.  A  lambent 
eye,  a  word,  a  smile  born  upon  beautiful  lips,  moves,  subdues 
them.  They  may  be  harsh  enough  with  men  ;  but  to  women 
they  are  ever  chivalric,  tender.  Their  subtle  penetration, 
their  delicate  flattery,  their  half  disguised  tenderness,  their 
deference,  and  instinctive  reverence  of  all  that  is  womanly ; 
the  rich  effluence  of  their  hearts,  sweetening  even  that  in  their 
nature  which  may  be  selfish  or  sinful,  throw  around  women 
who  enter  the  charmed  circle  of  their  personal  life  an  irresisti 
ble  fascination.  Too  often  they  exclaim  in  their  madness  of 
folly : 

"  Alas  I  I  know  not  if  guilt's  in  thy  heart ; 
I  but  know  that  I  love  tliee,  whatever  thou  art." 

These  are  the  men  whose  impulses  conquer  their  principles. 
The  human  flower  whose  fragrance  they  exhale  is  blighted  by 
their  touch. 

I  had  a  week  in  which  to  think,  and  to  gather  strength  to 
resist  Henri  Rochelle.  I  knew  not  how  to  trifle.  I  would 
not  use  artifice.  And  as  I  saw  no  medium  between  perfect 


The   Refusal.  39 


THE    REFUSAL. 

He  came  ;  quiet,  calm,  gentle,  almost  tender.  As  he  crossed 
the  threshold,  I  saw  only  PYederick's  friend,  Beatrice's  bro 
ther,  and  that  moment  forgot  to  be  quite  as  cold  and  formal 
as  I  had  intended.  It  was  such  a  joy  to  meet  one  who  knew 
and  loved  Frederick.  It  was  such  a  comfort  to  have  an  op 
portunity  to  speak  of  those  last  hours,  to  repeat  those  last 
messages,  and  to  feel  that  I  was  not  utterly  alone.  I  related 
every  incident  of  Frederick's  sickness  from  the  morning  of 
their  separation  until  his  death ;  every  smile,  every  look 
which  could  be  depicted,  I  portrayed.  And  he  told  me 
of  Beatrice,  of  her  beautiful  passing  away ;  how  she  had 
scarcely  died,  but,  like  a.  pure  spirit,  had  been  exhaled  into 
the  atmospherfe  of  spirits.  How  she  grew  more  and  more 
wondrously  beautiful  until  the  last ;  how  ineffable  was  the 
glory  in  her  eyes,  when,  in  the  last  moment,  she  breathed  the 
name  of  Frederick  and  departed.  Thus  we  talked  of  spirits — 
of  the  spirits  of  those  we  loved ;  and  our  voices  were  tender 
and  low,  sanctified  by  the  very  names  which  we  uttered. 
But  the  revulsion  came.  It  had  to  come.  At  last  there  came 
a  look  of  kind  but  certain  assurance  into  those  clear  eyes 
which  brought  me  back  to  the  reality.  Then  I  knew  that 
soon  we  should  cease  to  talk  of  spirits,  but,  instead,  of  mor 
tals  and  of  their  tame  affairs.  The  thought  fell  upon  me  like 
frost.  My  manner  grew  rigid,  my  voice  cold.  At  last  his 
words  broke  the  spell. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  our  lost  ones,"  he  said  ;  "  to  us 
their  names  will  ever  be  precious ;  but  it  is  time  that  we 
speak  of  our  own  life,  of  our  own  future,  that  lies  before  us. 
We  shall  not  love  the  departed  less  because  we  love  each 
other  more.  It  will  not  take  long  to  settle  your  affairs,  Vic- 
toire.  This  little  estate,  with  its  incumbrances,  is  your  only 
inheritance.  I  will  pay  the  mortgages  ;  then  it  will  be  yours, 
free  from  all  claims  from  others.  My  studies  are  completed. 
I  am  already  established  in  my  profession ;  I  only  want  my 
wife,  I  only  want  you,  Victoire.  I  feel  already  that  you  are 
mine." 


4o 


Victoire. 


For  .in  instant  he  seemed  not  to  comprehend  me.  He 
looked  bewildered.  His  mind,  concentrated  upon  the  cer 
tainty,  was  slow  in  staggering  back  to  the  idea  of  uncertainty. 
With  my  first  words  of  refusal  all  my  strength  came.  When 
I  had  looked  forward  to  this  moment  I  had  grown  weak  and 
trembled.  The  crisis  had  come,  and  I  felt  strong  enough  to 
meet  it.  I  felt  that  my  decision  was  irrevocable.  He  had 
wounded  my  pride  poignantly.  Had  I  loved  him,  I  could 
not  accept  an  offer  which  made  me  so  great  a  debtor.  I  was 
not  one  simply  to  be  loved  and  taken.  I  was  not  passive.  I 
would  at  least  be  wooed  and  won  by  the  man  I  married.  "  I 
will  not  marry  you,"  I  thought,  and  believe  I  looked  it,  as 
I  lifted  my  eye  steadily  to  his. 

He  comprehended  me  now.  The  penetrating  eye  looked 
down  into  my  soul.  Affection,  passion,  trembled  under  the 
iron  curb  of  will.  In  the  deadly  pallor  which  swept  over  the 
strong  face,  I  saw  the  surge  of  feeling.  "  Victoire !  do  you 
know  what  you  say  ?"  he  asked  calmly. 

"  I  always  know  what  I  say  ;  and  I  know  also  that  I  will 
not  marry  you,  Monsieur  Rochelle." 

"  Why  will  you  not  marry  me,  Victoire  ?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  wish  to  marry  any  one  ;  because  I  do 
not  love  you." 

"  When  I  wrote  you,"  he  replied,  "  I  did  not  think  that 
you  had  learned  to  love  me.  But,  since  my  coming,  your 
kind  manner  has  been  to  me  the  acceptance  of  the  proposal 
in  my  letter." 

Here  spoke  the  man,  a  true  representative  of  most  men. 
Few  men  can  receive  simple  kindness  from  a  girl  without 
misconstruing  it  into  something  more — into  a  proof  of  their 
own  intense  personal  power,  or  as  the  effervescence  of  her 
half-concealed  passion.  When  a  man  points  out  a  woman 
amid  the  crowd,  gifted  or  beautiful,  perchance,  and  says, 
"  She  loved  me,"  or  "  I  might  have  married  her"  do  you 
always  believe  it  ? 

To  Henri  Rochelle  I  said :  "  I  met  you  as  Beatrice's  bro 
ther,  as  Frederick's  friend ;  as  such  I  regard  you  tenderly ; 
but  to  think  of  you  as  a  lover  or  as  a  husband,  turns  me  to 
marble."  Again  he  looked  amazed.  "  Victoire,"  he  asked, 
"  will  you  look  at  this  matter  in  the  light  of  reason,  if  you 
cannot  in  that  of  affection  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  happy  to  look  at  it  in  the  light  of  my  own 
reason." 

"  If  I  cannot  convince  you,  I  shall  think  that  you  have  no 


The  Refusal.  41 

reason,  Yictoire  ;  but  I  feel  certain  that  I  shall.  I  am  not 
foolishly  romantic.  My  feelings  are  controlled  by  my  judg 
ment.  I  could  willingly  sacrifice  my  own  desire,  sacrifice 
the  first  love  of  my  life,  ff  I  could  thereby  make  you  happier ; 
v  but  in  doing  so,  I  should  consult  your  interests  as  little  as  I 
should  my  own  happiness.  You  do  not  realize  your  situation. 
It  is  not  strange.  You  know  nothing  of  the  world,  and  yet 
you  are  left  in  it  alone.  A  young  girl,  alone  !  You  need  a 
protector;  that  protector  should  be  your  husband.  Who 
would  be  more  faithful  to  you  than  I  ?" 

All  that  he  said,  doubtless,  was  true;  yet  he  had  not 
fathomed  the  nature  which  he  addressed,  or  he  would  have 
chosen  another  mode  to  conquer;  at  least  he  would  have  left 
a  few  words  out  of  his  sentences,  and  have  soothed  down  his 
tone  of  superiority  a  little.  A  few  hours  before  he  had  seemed 
to  me  a  noble  and  tender  brother ;  now,  I  only  recognised  an 
antagonist.  Still  he  went  on — still  in  silence  I  listened, 
though  every  word  which  he  uttered  made  me  more  deter 
mined  noi^to  submit. 

"  I  abhor  the  marriage  de  convenance.  I  would  not  sell 
myself  nor  buy  you.  I  bestow  a  heart — I  demand  a  heart  in 
return — yet  I  am  willing  to  wait  for  it.  Now,  I  only  ask  for 
your  confidence,  your  affection,  and  the  assurance  that  you  do 
not  love  another,  and  for  the  growth  of  love  I  bide  my  time." 

The  assured  tone  did  not  alter.  It  was  this  which  fretted 
me.  It  said  plainer  than  his  words,  "  I  am  willing  to  wait, 
because  I  am  certain  that  you  will  love  me." 

"  Our  ideas  of  what  will  constitute  a  happy  marriage  differ," 
I  replied.  "  Before  my  fate  is  irrevocably  sealed,  I  wish  to 
feel  that  I  do  love  the  man  I  am  to  marry." 

"  Esteem,  affection,  are  worth  infinitely  more  than  the  im 
pulsive  love  of  a  passionate  heart.  The  love  which  is  the 
after-growth  of  these  qualities,  alone  is  reliable  ;  but  you  have 
the  common  girl-ideas.  You  are  romantic,  Victoire." 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  I  said,  "  but  time  will  cure  my  exaggera 
tions.  I  shall  not  marry  in  haste." 

Again  he  looked  astonished.  Evidently  I  was  not  just 
what  he  had  believed  me  to  be.  Where  he  had  expected  the 
pliancy  of  the  girl,  he  met  the  hard  obstinacy  of  a  time-harden 
ed  woman.  Frederick  had  been  guided  by  his  judgment  and 
wishes ;  from  his  sister  he  had  received  perfect  acquiescence, 
the  submissive  reverence  which  the  "  true  woman"  is  supposed 
to  yield  involuntarily  to  man.  lie  was  utterly  disappointed. 

"  You  are  very  unlike  Frederick,"  he  said,  abruptly.     He 


42  Victoire. 

touched  the  only  cord  which  could  vibrate  with  a  pang. 
Tears  started.  I  turned  and  looked  through  the  open  win 
dow  toward  his  grave,  growing  green  already  under  the 
shadow  of  the  firs.  My  soul  yearned  for  my  brother.  "  Ah ! 
if  you  were  but  here,"  I  thought,  "  I  should  not  be  thus  tor 
mented." 

"  No !  I  am  not  like  him,"  I  murmured ;  "  but  I  am  not  to 
blame  for  my  nature." 

"  Your  nature  is  noble  ;  you  have  only  to  learn  to  bring  it 
into  subjection — the  great  lesson  of  life  is  to  be  willing  to 
submit." 

"  Submit !  I  will  submit  to  God ;  but  I  know  of  no  law 
which  requires  me  to  submit  to  you." 

"  No,  not  to  me,  but  to  your  circumstances.  God  makes 
your  circumstance." 

"  I  see  no  circumstance  which  makes  it  necessary  that  I 
marry  against  my  will." 

"  Young,  poor,  ignorant  of  the  world,  without  a  living  rela 
tive,  are  not  these  circumstances  which  should  influence  you 
to  accept  a  lawful  protector  ?" 

"  Protector  !"  I  said.  "  God  is  my  protector.  He  can  take 
care  of  rite  without  human  help.  He  has  given  me  a  purpose 
of  my  own.  1  have  my  own  destiny  to  fulfil.  My  own  con 
sciousness  is  a  safer  guide  than  you  can  be,  who  know  neither 
my  powers  nor  my  needs.  I  do  not  wish  to  marry,  and  you 
cannot  compel  me." 

"  Compel  you  ?"  And  his  voice,  which  had  not  varied  in 
its  calm  kindness,  was  now  painfully  mournful.  "I  would 
never  take  to  my  heart  a  forced  bride.  I  have  only  sought 
to  convince  you.  I  know  that  if  you  would  only  acquiesce, 
your  feelings  toward  me  would  change.  I  confess  I  was  not 
prepared  lor  such  a  state  of  mind.  It  is  unprecedented  in 
my  knowledge  of  women.  Believe  me,  it  is  not  a  natural 
one.  The  heart  of  the  real  woman  yearns  for  nothing  so 
much  as  to  be  loved.  In  the  love  of  a  noble  man,  she  receives 
her  highest  exaltation.  The  first  love  of  my  life,  the  love 
of  a  man's  strong  heart,  I  have  offered  you,  Victoire,  and  you 
spurn  it  with  contempt." 

"  No,  I  do  not  spurn  your  heart.  I  am  humble  when  I 
think  that  you  deem  me  worthy  of  your  love.  I  only  resist 
what  to  me  seems  your  purpose  to  coerce  me  into  a  plan  of 
lifi'  different  from  that  which  I  have  chosen.  I  place  no  lurht 
estimate  upon  love.  I  have  a  human  heart,  which  yearns  for 
alR'ction;  but  it  must  not  be  too  dearly  bought.  A  portion 


The  Refusal.  43 

• 

of  my  best  years  I  wish  to  devote  exclusively  to  art ;  and  to 
do  this,  if  necessary,  I  arn  willing  to  live  alone  until  the  end 
of  my  days." 

"  You  do  not  know  yourself,  Victoire,"  he  said.  "  Your 
heart  is  an  xinsolved  mystery.  Art  is  a  glorious  mistress,  but 
she  cannot  be  to  you,  through  all  your  life,  either  lover  Or  hus 
band.  You  might  exist  with  no  other  friend,  but  it  would 
not  be  life.  Your  nature  would  starve,  and  at  last  you  would 
pine  for  the  joy  you  had  spurned,  which  had  passed  beyond 
your  reach  for  ever." 

"  You  do  not  know  me,  Monsieur  Rochelle.  You  speak  from 
the  belief  that  all  women  are  alike.  You  think  only  of  your 
sister  Beatrice,  wThom  God  made  to  show  us  what  the  angels 
are  like.  The  human  soul  does  not  repeat  itself.  There  are 
as  many  types  of  womanhood  as  of  manhood.  All  men  are 
not  brave,  and  strong,  and  noble.  All  women  are  not  weak, 
and  soft,  and  loving.  Athena  sprang  from  the  head  of  Jove 
in  full  armor.  She  was  his  equal  in  intellect  and  power. 
She  delighted  in  the  tumult  of  war.  She  was  the  leader  of 
heroes.  Her  eye  made  Achilles  tremble.  The  soul  of  her  cha 
racter  was  cold,  reflective  wisdom.  Yet  she  was  the  patron  of 
art,  and  delighted  in  the  unbought  graces  of  life.  She  repre 
sents  one  order  of  women.  The  world  is  full  of  Athenas." 

"  Athena  represents  a  class  of  extreme  women.  But  the 
world  does  not  need  Athena  now." 

"No  !  The  world  is  old.  Its  morning  freshness  has  depart 
ed.  The  lusty  strength  of  its  noon  has  vanished.  The  fiery 
life  in  its  veins  is  spent.  It  wants  to  be  warmed  and  nou 
rished.  It  has  no  need  of  heroes  now,  but  cries  for  weak  and 
clinging  things,  to  breathe  new  life  into  its  withered  soul. 
Aphrodite,  the  beautiful,  the  frail,  the  loving — light  as  the 
sea-foam  from  whence  she  sprung — she  is  needed.  Men  en 
fold  her,  and  breathe  into  her  ear  as  Zeus  did  of  old :  '  War 
like  work,  my  love,  is  not  thy  business.  It  is  thy  sweet  care 
to  prepare  the  joy  of  the  wedding  feast.  The  care  of  life's 
wild  tumult  leave  to  Ares  and  Athena.'  All  men  want  is 
Aphrodite.  She  is  easily  found.  May  you  find  her,  Monsieur 
Rochelle." 

"  Aphrodite  alone  would  not  satisfy  me  ;  not  love  and  weak 
ness,  but  tenderness  combined  with  strength,  constitutes  my 
ideal  of  woman.  Athena  commands  only  my  icy  admiration. 
You  are  not  Athena,  Victoire." 

"  I  am  not  Aphrodite." 

. "  No,  but  there  is  more  than  her  tenderness  latent  in  your 


/|/j  Victoire. 

heart.     Never  did  Aphrodite  love  as  Victoire  can  love,  will 
love,  some  day.     Victoire  does  not  know  herself." 

"  You  do  not  know  me — I  am  a  peaceful  Athena,  devoted 
to  art." 

"  You  do  violence  to  yourself.  You  give  supremacy  to  in 
tellect  ;  you  would  crush,  kill  the  heart,  yet  you  can  never 
be  Athena.  Where  is  the  majestic  form  ?  You  are  delicate 
and  slender.  Where  are  the  classic  bands  of  hair  ?  Yours  is 
silken  and  curling.  Where  the  blue,  frozen  eye?  Yours 
is  dark  and  liquid,  breathing  softness  as  well  as  fire.  Where 
the  firm,  strong  lips  ?  In  yours,  above  the  curve  of  pride, 
swells  the  fulness  of  feeling.  Ah !  you  do  not  know  your 
self;  but  your  hour  will  come.  You  will  feel  yet  that  to  love 
and  to  be  loved  is,  after  all,  the  joy  of  life." 

The  strong  mind  was  concentrated  upon  me  now.  I  closed 
my  eyes  beneath  his  penetrating  gaze.  An  image,  that  he  did 
not  see,  rose  under  the  drooped  lids.  That  rich  face,  those 
profound  eyes,  those  tones,  low  and  tender,  which  had  swayed 
me  once,  I  saw,  I  heard  again.  Again  the  pulses  of  life  trem 
bled,  touched  by  a  new  power.  Ah,  to  be  loved  by  such  a  one, 
were  it  possible,  were  joy  enough  ! 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  trance  of  my  new  vision 
was  too  pleasant  to  be  broken.  It  might  be  madness  ;  I  knew 
that  it  was,  yet  how  sweet  to  dream !  Henri  Rochelle  did  not 
know  that  the  foolish  child  was  obeying  her  heart  after  all.  But 
Ae,  sitting  there  in  silence,  was  not  dreaming.  Chagrin,  disap 
pointment,  sorrow,  love,  all  struggled  in  the  breast  of  the  man, 
self-poised,  self-sustained,  strong,  wise,  yet  baffled  ;  baffled  by 
a  wilful  girl,  who  had  scattered  his  hopes,  defeated  his  plans, 
refused  his  hand,  sent  his  heart  back  to  feed  upon  itself.  He 
was  in  a  place  where  it  is  hardest  for  a  man  to  be  magnani 
mous.  A  man  can  forgive  his  enemy,  can  pardon  insult, 
treachery,  wrong,  in  man,  easier  than  he  can  forgive  the 
woman  who  openly,  deliberately,  positively  refuses  the  great 
gift  of  liis  life — his  heart.  He  who  in  this  position  acts  nobly, 
is  magnanimous  above  the  average  of  men. 

Henri  Rochelle  saw  before  him  an  orphan  girl  to  whom  he 
uished  to  be  husband,  brother,  friend.  She  was  poor;  he 
wished  to  satisfy  every  want.  She  loved  the  beautiful;  he 
wished  to  surround  her  with  beauty,  to  gratify  every  taste,  to 
cultivate  every  gift,  to  love  her  as  the  best  gift  of  his  life, 
asking  only  in  return  that  she  should  love  and  obey  him — the 
two  things  which  Victoire  could  not  do.  In  that  hour  I  could 
not  enter  the  path  which  he  opened  to  me  and  be  true  to  my 


The  Refusal.  45 

own  nature.  Every  soul  holds  an  inner  life,  known  only  to 
itself  and  its  Creator ;  and  this  should  be  allowed  to  expand, 
to  grow,  safe  from  the  pressure  of  any  outward  hand.  If 
there  is  a  thing  sacred  in  the  universe  it  is  a  soul  as  God  made 
it.  And  there  is  no  meaner  robbery  than  that  which  would 
strip  a  spirit  of  its  individuality.  Yet  that  bent  of  the  mind, 
which  can  neither  be  given  nor  taken  away,  which  distin 
guishes  its  possessor  from  every  other  human  being,  is  gene 
rally  regarded  as  a  fault.  The  disposition  is  rampant  in  human 
beings  to  condemn,  suppress,  thwart  the  idiosyncrasies  of  their 
fellows.  You  should  do  so,  or  so  ;  you  must  be  this  or  that,  is 
the  cry.  Not  human  voices,  but  the  faculty  dominant  within 
us,  points  to  our  Avork.  It  is  the  prophecy  of  an  individual 
mission,  the  guarantee  of  an  individual  triumph.  To  crush  it 
is  to  defy  God. 

There  was  a  long  silence ;  both  hearts  were  busy. 

"  You  have  plans,  Victoire ;  what  are  they  ?  "  at  last  he 
asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  America."  This  was  too  sudden,  too 
great  a  surprise. 

"  Impossible !     Are  you  mad  ?" 

"  No  !     I  am  perfectly  sane." 

"  What — what  will  become  of  you  ?"  There  was  more 
of  sorrow  than  of  anger  in  his  tone. 

"  Have  you  no  faith  iu  God  ?"  Monsieur  Rochelle.  "  He 
will  take  care  of  me." 

"  He  has  not  promised  to  take  care  of  the  presumptuous — 
but  we  will  talk  no  longer, "  he  added.  "  I  see  that  your  de 
cision  is  unalterable.  My  duty  yet  remains.  When  do  you 
wish  to  embark  for  America  ?" 

"  As  soon  as  possible.  I  do  nbt  wish  to  spend  the  winter 
in  France." 

Another  expression  of  deep  pain  passed  over  his  face,  but  he 
only  said :  "  Well,  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  assist  you." 

"  I  trust  you,"  was  my  answer. 

And  he  did  do  all  in  his  power.  He  began  to  make  arrange 
ments  for  my  departure,  as  if  that  had  been  his  only  object 
in  coming  to  Les  Delices.  America  was  my  mother's  native 
country.  I  wished  to  see  it.  It  was  not  a  new  wish  either ; 
but  a  long-cherished  hope  that  some  time  I  should  cross  the 
ocean  and  visit  scenes  which  I  had  heard  portrayed  from 
early  childhood.  But,  in  my  girlish  dreams,  first  I  had  gone 
to  Italy,  to  Greece — the  old  homes  of  art — won  fame  and 
riches,  and  then  had  turned  to  seek  a  home  in  the  western 


46 


Victoirc. 


land.  Could  I  have  retained  Les  Delices,  I  should  still  have 
hoped  to  see  my  dreams  fulfilled.  But  it  was  different  now ; 
if  I  refused  Henri  Rochelle,  Les  Delices  must  be  sold.  My 
ancestral  home  must  pass  into  the  hands  of  strangers.  I 
cherished  the  hope  of  redeeming  it;  I  could  not  part  from  it 
for  ever.  I  would  go  to  this  new  land,  and  work.  I  would 
paint  pictures  which  would  win  me  not  only  fame  but  gold. 
There,  people  were  not  sated  with  art.  The  artist  was  not 
a  drug.  With  culminating  wealth,  with  ripening  luxury,  a 
love  for  all  beautiful  forms  was  usurping  the  old  greed  for 
utility.  Riches  easily  won  were  lavishly  spent.  I  should  find 
sale  for  pictures  there.  Young,  unknown,  I  could  still  earn 
money.  I  could  take  care  of  myself,  redeem  my  home,  fulfil 
my  destiny.  Thus  I  believed — rather,  thus  I  dreamed.  I  felt 
in  haste  to  depart,  for  the  presence  of  Henri  Rochelle  was  a 
sad  constraint.  After  the  position  which  I  had  assumed,  I 
could  not  breathe  the  same  air  with  him  without  feeling 
stifled.  No  !  IJelt  that  I  could  not  live  in  the  same  country  ; 
for  I  knew  that,  with  unwearying  vigilance,  he  would  watch 
my  course,  and  estimate  my  progress.  I  was  resolved  to  have 
no  self-appointed  guardian.  Even  now  he  vexed  me.  If  he 
had  only  appeared  piqued,  it  would  have  been  a  relief.  If  he 
had  only  been  haughty,  it  would  have  been  delightful.  If  he 
had  seemed  hurt,  wounded,  better  still ;  then  I  could  at  least 
have  been  kind.  But  no ;  he  called  out  only  the  coldest  dig 
nity.  He  was  kind,  thoughtful  as  before.  But  his  very 
attentions  made  him  seem  distant.  It  was  no  longer  the 
affectionate  thoughtfulness  of  the  privileged  friend,  but  the 
punctilious  politeness  of  the  stranger. 

What  chafed  me  most,  I  fancied  that  he  pitied  me — pitied 
my  ignorance  and  folly.  It'*here  was  no  condescension  in  his 
manner,  I  was  sure  that  there  was  compassion.  Arift  more  ; 
once,  twico,  thrice,  I  saw  it  gather  in  his  face,  his  eyes;  fuse  his 
whole  expression — the  old  assurance,  the  calm  look  of  certainty 
saying:  "You  are  mine  !  You  do  not  believe  it;  but  you  are 
mine.  I  am  your  destiny."  He  was  unconscious  of  this  look ; 
but  I  knew  it,  and  it  made  me  defy  him.  In  a  few  days  he 
departed  for  Paris,  promising  to  make  speedy  arrangements 
for  the  sale  of  Les  Delices.  He  said  that  he  was  intimate 
with  a  gentleman  belonging  to  the  city,  who  wished  to  pur 
chase  such  an  estate,  and  with  whom  he  was  confident  a  bar 
gain  could  be  perfected.  I  received  a  letter  at  an  early  day 
— a  business  letter,  terse,  laconic  as  a  lawyer's  —  stating 
that  the  gentleman  whom  he  mentioned* would  purchase  Les 


Victoire  on  the  Ocean.  47 

Delices  at  my  price,  promising  to  pay  in  three  half-yearly 
instalments,  giving  the  best  of  security.  Thus  promptly  and 
readily  was  the  most  important  of  my  financial  aifairs  ad 
justed. 

I  thought  that  nothing  remained  but  to  make  my  personal 
arrangements  before  my  departure,  when  opposition  arose  in 
an  unexpected  quarter.  Nannette,  my  old  bonne,  thought 
me  "  crazy."  As  I  wished  to  be  spared  her  lectures,  I  had 
not  spoken  of  my  plan  for  the  future  until  it  was  perfectly 
defined  in  my  own  mind  and  ready  to  be  consummated. 
Nannette  had  lived  in  the  family  from  my  mother's  mar 
riage,  had  nursed  both  Frederick  and  myself,  and  for  years 
had  indulged  in  all  the  loquacious  liberty  which  is  generally 
conceded  as  the  especial  privilege  of  old  and  faithful  ser 
vants. 

Mademoiselle  was  mad !  What,  beside,  could  ail  her  ?  If 
in  her  right  mind,  could  she  forsake  her  country?  Could  she 
leave  her  brother's  grave  ?  Could  she  go  from  the  home  of 
her  ancestors  ?  Could  she,  without  tears  of  blood,  sell  it  to 
strangers?  Who  cared  for  Mademoiselle  now  but  old  Nan- 
nette?  No  one!  She  had  fancied  Monsieur  Rochelle  might, 
but  it  was  plain  that  he  did  not — else  why  had  he  gone  with 
out  asking  her  hand  in  marriage  ?  Yet  Mademoiselle  was  for 
saking  her  best  friend.  She  was  going  to  leave  old  Nan- 
nette.  Mademoiselle  was  ungrateful ;  she  was  wilful ;  she  was 
always  a  stubborn  child.  Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu!  What 
might  happen  to  Mademoiselle !  She  could  not  take  care  of 
herself.  She  was  only  an  infant.  Nannette  must  go.  Made 
moiselle  was  ungrateful ;  she  did  not  want  Nannette  ;  yet  go 
she  must,  go  she  would,  to  take  care  of  Mademoiselle ;  and 
go  she  did.  Good  old  Nannette ! 


VICTOIKK   ON  THE   OCEAN. 

I  was  alone  upon  the  ocean.  The  autumnal  glories  of  the 
land  were  reflected  in  the  resplendent  colors  of  the  sky  and 
sea.  The  fitful  clouds  had  wept  their  eyes  dry,  and  now  were 
out  for  a  holiday.  Soft,  ethereal,  evanescent  forms,  their  fleecy 
robes  all  fringed  with  flame,  they  chased  each  other  over  the 
sky.  Some,  softly  sw.aying  up  and  down,  floated  idly  through 
the  hyacinth  sea  ;  and  some,  dim  in  the  zenith,  seemed  to  beat 
with  their  invisible  oars  the  crystalline  walls  of  the  far  away 


48  Victoire. 

spheres.  Many,  low  down,  their  silvery  hair  outflowing  far 
upon  the  blue,  peacefully  slept — the  ocean  their  pillow  and 
heaven  their  covering.  The  sun,  like  a  blazing  ship,  burned 
against  the  dark  horizon.  Scintillant  bars,  uneasy  bridges  of 
flame,  stretched  from  its  sides,  across  the  shifting  waters, 
tempting  yet  mocking  passengers  to  ascend  into  the  golden 
Argo.  Under  this  glory  crept  the  wrinkled  ocean. 

Since  that  hour  I  have  loved  a  little  girl,  a  melodious  child, 
with  prophetic  eyes  sad  and  soft,  in  their  beautiful  mystery, 
who,  as  she  sat  with  her  arms  around  her  father's  neck,  gaz 
ing  out  upon  the  measureless  waters,  listening  to  the  moan  of 
the  unresting  waves,  sighed  in  the  sweet  sympathy  of  her 
soul:  "Poor  old  sea !  poor  old  sea!"  The  child  penetrated 
the  ocean's  history.  She  knew  that  it  was  old,  she  dreamed 
that  it  was  sorrowful.  Yet  she  knew  not  of  the  wrecked 
treasures,  lying  upon  its  oozy  floors,  nor  of  the  lost  life  locked 
in  its  coral  palaces.  She  saw  not  the  tresses  of  gold,  the  hair 
of  jet,  the  bodies  beloved  and  beautiful,  dissolving  in  its  slimy 
caves — lost,  lost,  lost  for  ever  from  the  homes  of  earth,  from 
the  hearts  of  the  living.  She  did  not  dream  that  the  flower 
of  the  race,  the  wealth  of  centuries,  had  been  paid  as  tribute 
to  its  baleful  majesty.  She  had  never  heard  the  shriek,  the 
prayer  of  human  souls. in  their  last  extremity ;  the  terror,  the 
tragedy,  which  ocean  had  witnessed  in  its  hours  of  fury  be 
neath  the  lashed  heavens,  beneath  .the  tranquil  stars  ;  yet  she 
sighed — "  Poor  old  sea!  poor  old  sea  !" 

But  even  ocean  can  forget  its  horrors — forget  that  it  is 
old,  and  laugh  above  its  sepulchres.  To-night  it  looked 
young.  Every  wave  seemed  agile  with  youth,  springing  up 
in  eager  emulation  to  see  which  could  toss  highest  its  fringed 
cap  of  creamy  spray.  Ah !  how  could  ocean  look  old,  when 
bridges  of  rosy  flame  spanned  it  near  and  far  away — when 
every  grey  wave  was  kindled  with  the  glory  of  the  embla 
zoned  sky  ;  more  than  earth  can  look  old  when  she  wraps 
around  her  aged  form  the  virginal  robes  of  spring!  The  last 
bridge  was  withdrawn,  the  last  blazing  spar  submerged,  the 
golden  ship  went  down — down  under  the  dark  waves.  Night 
crept  over  the  deep  ;  she  quenched  the  glory  of  the  sky  ;  she 
lit  her  own  twinkling  beacons  along  the  dim  upper  shores. 
Still  I  sat  upon  the  deck.  Memories,  yearnings  came  over 
me.  My  heart  went  back  to  France,  to  Les  Delices — to  its 
vineyard,  its  garden.  I  stood  beside  its  fountains,  lingered  by 
its  grave.  1  gazed  into  the  fathomless  world  of  Beatrice's 
eyes.  I  pillowed  the  head  of  my  lost  one  upon  my  heart. 


Victoire  on  the  Ocean.  49 

Again,  again,  dawned  upon  me  the  vision  of  one  who  seemed 
now  to  haunt  me  always.  The  calm  eyes  of  Henri  Rochelle 
met  mine.  I  turned  away ;  he  was  nothing  to  me. 

The  great  ship  stru'ck  the  colliding  waters.  It  heaved  and 
fell ;  it  hissed  through  the  swelling  surge;  its  groan  answered 
the  groan  of  the  deep.  Through  the  grey  night  my  eyes 
wandered  forth  across  the  wilderness  of  waves — mighty, 
boundless!  Vastness,  sublimity,  power,  struck  me  chill  with 
awe.  An  atom  of  life,  unheeded,  in  the  fierce  clutch  of  the 
relentless  sea,  I  was  vanquished  by  the  sense  of  my  nothing 
ness.  What  a  waif  upon  the  waters — what  a  waif  to  be 
tossed  upon  the  bosom  of  life.  And  yet,  ere  I  knew, 
again  hope  dawned  within  me.  Courage  grew.  Endeavor, 
rooted,  broad-based,  seemed  to  make  my  'centre.  I  became 
heroic.  The  night  made  me  grand.  Victory  looked  from  the 
eyes  of  the  stars.  The  gay  young  western  world  stretched 
forth  its  strong,  free  arms  to  receive  me.  My  mother's  land, 
.the  land  of  my  father's  love,  the  brave,  the  bold,  the  auda- 
'  cious,  yet  generous  and  glorious  laud — it  had  a  place  for  me 
amid  its  workers. 

No  wonder  that  the  ancients,  with  their  subtle,  spiritual 
vision,  had  descried,  far  away  in  the  mythic  west,  a  golden 
Atlantis.  No  wonder  that  Plato  dreamed  of  it  in  his  garden. 
That  all  generations  of  men,  from  the  early  twilight  of  time, 
had  turned  their  faces  toward  the  evening  laud;  that  the 
mines  of  Cypango,  the  jewelled  walls  of  Cathay,  flashed  be 
fore  the  poet  eyes  of  Columbus,  when,  in  truth,  upon  the 
thither  shore  of  Atlantic,  America  stretched  away  to  the 
borders  of  sunset.  The  young  land,  which  nurtured  upon  its 
beneficent  bosom  the  weary,  the  hopeless,  the  hoping,  the 
aspiring  of  all  races,  I  believed  had  room  for  another  in 
whose  veins  burned  a  life  real,  potent,  yet  disquieted — restless 
as  the  genius  of  the  people  whose  land  she  sought.  These 
*were  my  dreams  upon  deck — these  my  dreams  in  sleep,  when 
I  lay  rocked  in  my  narrow  berth,  the  great  waves  of  ocean 
throbbing  at  my  side. 

It  is  very  easy  to  suppose  what  we  shall  do  at  a  certain 
time  under  certain  imagined  circumstances.  To  see  our 
selves  very  self-composed,  very  wise,  rarely  discreet,  all  self- 
sufficient.  But,  alas  !  when  the  occasion  comes,  it  is  just  as 
easy  to  forget  all  our  well-laid  arrangements,  to  lose  our 
equanimity,  to  shift  from  our  balance,  to  find  ourselves  drift 
ing  hither  and  thither  scarcely  knowing  what  we  are  about. 
People  of  little  imagination  do  not  dream  over  emergencies ; 

3 


£o  Victoire. 

v 

but,  when  they  come,  they  have  a  cool  strength,  a  collected 
mind  to  meet  them. 

In  my  visions  I  had  often  seen  myself  landing  in  a  strange 
country.  In  those  visions  I  always  saw  myself  calm  and  self- 
possessed.  When  the  reality  came,  when  the  great  ship 
touched  the  wharf,  when  the  din  and  whirl  of  landing  began, 
I  was  not  quite  the  composed  creature  of  my  dreams.  Friends 
were  rushing  to  meet  friends.  Oh  !  what  rejoicings  and  em- 
bracings,  what  kisses  and  tears  I  beheld,  as  people  rushed 
into  each  other's  arms !  Happy  beings  led  away  their  re 
turned  ones,  to  tell,  in  the  sweet  air  of  home,  by  the  .golden 
hearth-side,  all  the  glad  and  sorrowful  things  which  "hap 
pened  since  you  went  away."  There  was  no  greeting  for  me. 
I  could  have  wept  because  there  was  none.  It  was  a  cold, 
gusty,  leaden  morning.  The  heavens  were  drab,  the  air  was 
drab,  the  people  looked  drab  in  the  dingy  light.  Not  even 
sunshine,  not  even  a  genial  air  to  say — "  You  are  welcome." 
Alas!  was  my  Atlantis  a  mirage?  The  unattainable  land  of 
visions — had  it  shifted  farther  away  ?  On,  on,  still  on  did  it 
lie,  curtained  with  its  own  golden  mist  upon  the  dreamy  bor 
ders  of  Hesperus  ? 

Nannette,  who  had  no  visions,  no  anticipations ;  felt  no 
disappointment,  no  misgivings,  no  fear.  She  simply  looked 
at  facts — stark,  ungarnished  facts.  "  Mademoiselle  had  run 
away  to  this  country  to  seek  her  fortune.  Nannette  had 
come  to  take  care  of  her.  In  Nannette's  opinion  Mademoi 
selle  was  a  little  crazy.  She  must  look  after  Mademoiselle's 
trunks."  This  was  the  alpha  and  omega  of  Nannette's 
thought.  She  simply  knew  her  duty,  and  went  and  did  it. 
Nannette  was  wise. 

In  the  meantime  I  swallowed  the  rising  weakness,  pressed 
back  the  gushing  flood  before  it  had  filtered  out  a  single  tear. 
In  less  than  an  hour  I  found  myself  in  a  quiet  apartment  in 
a  good  hotel,  looking  from  my  window  upon  the  sea  of  human » 
life  flowing  through  Broadway. 

There  was  no  cant  in  my  prayers  that  night.  No  mock 
devotion  as  I  bowed  low  at  the  feet  of  the  Infinite  Father. 
Wilful,  sinful,  He  held  me.  He  had  made  a  path  for  me 
across  the  great  waters.  The  Power  who  had  sustained  me 
until  now,  could  I  not  trust  it  always  ?  I  lay  down  without 
ar,  as  peacefully  as  it'  my  head  were  nestling  amid  the 
white  pillows  of  my  little  couch  in  the  turret  chamber  of  Les 
Delices.  Through  the  glass  panes  at  the  top  of  my  doorT  the 
light  shone  in  from  the  great  halls.  Porters  ran  up  and  down, 


Mrs.  Skinher  and  a  Few  of  her  Boarders.       51 

calling  to  each  other  through  the  long  passages.  The  click 
of  canes,  the  sharp  ring  of  metallic  heels  upon  marble  floors, 
the  sudden  laugh,  single  words  of  conversation  passed  my 
door,  and  died  away  in  the  distant  corridors.  Bells  tinkled. 
Music  floated  up  from  the  parlors.  Coming,  going,  all  the 
multifarious  sounds  of  a  vast  hotel  reached  my  ear.  Amid 
all  I  fell  asleep,  and  not  even  the  shadow  of  a  troubled  dream 
passed  over  my  spirit  until  morning. 


MRS.    SKINHER   AND   A   FEW   OP   HER   BOARDERS. 

I  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  from  M.  Savonne  to  M. 
Petitman.  My  old  teacher  regarded  him  as  a  gentleman  of 
wealth,  taste,  and  of  fine  social  position.  The  day  after  my 
arrival  I  despatched  my  letter  and  card,  and  coolly  awaited  a 
call  from  its  recipient.  M.  Petitman  came  during  the  after 
noon.  I  was  summoned  into  the  presence  of  a  sleek,  com 
placent,  smiling  man,  with  a  smooth,  pulpy  face,  and  a  shin 
ing,  bald  head.  He  possessed  a  great  portion  of  .what  the 
English  call  "  manner,"  which,  I  soon  discovered,  in  him  con 
sisted  of  an  odd  mixture  of  Yankee  inquisitiveness  and  Pari 
sian  politeness.  He  had  a  startling  way  of  moving  his  bare 
scalp  back  and  forth  as  if  it  were  making  a  serious  effort  to 
open.  He  had  the  peculiar  cringe  of  body  which  marks  the 
sycophant ;  and  he  smiled  and  said  "Ah,"  perpetually. 

"  Mademoiselle  Victoire  Vernoid,  ah  !  I  am  most  happy  to 
meet  a  pupil  of  my  dear  friend,  Monsieur  Savonne.  Happy, 
happy  were  the  hours  which  I  spent  in  his  studio.  Ah,  with 
what  delightful  sensations  I  recall  them  to  my  memory ;  the 
most  charming  hours  which  I  spent  to  Paris.  I  have  a  weak 
ness  for  Paris,  Mademoiselle  Vernoid — ah." 

All  this  was  uttered  with  a  most  gracious  obeisance.  • 

"  You  have  come  to  America  to  visit  your  relatives — ah, 
Mademoiselle  ?" 

"  No,  sir.     I  have  not  a  relative  living." 

"  Ah !  unfortunate,  unfortunate ;  but  you  have  friends 
whom  you  have  come  to  see,  ah  ?" 

"  I  have  not  even  an  acquaintance  in  America.  I  have  few 
friends  living.  My  life  has  passed  in  great  retirement." 

This  was  a  most  impolitic  speech.  A  change,  so  slight 
that  it  was  scarcely  perceptible  ;  still  a  change  passed  over 
the  glistening  pulp  of  M.  Petitman's  features.  It  betrayed 


52  Victoire. 

the  man  ;  it  said :  "  One  who  has  few  friends  is  nothing  to 
me."  M.  Petitman  was  one  to  verify  poor  Goldsmith's  asser 
tion  :  "  If  you  want  friends,  be  sure  not  to  need  them."  Had 
I  been  a  distinguished  genius,  M.  Petitman  would  instantly 
have  become  my  devout  worshipper  ;  but  an  aspiring  soul  who 
had  yet  its  way  to  win — to  win  unassisted,  alon^  could  be  no 
thing  to  him.  Evidently,  in  his  estimation,  I  had  already 
found  my  level.  To  him  I  was  a  silly,  romantic  girl,  who  had 
ran  away  to  a  strange  land,  scarcely  knowing  what  for,  or 
what  I  was  about ;  and,  in  doing  so,  had  done  a  very  improper 
thing. 

I  came  to  these  conclusions  while  waiting  for.  M.  Pettiman's 
next  remark.  The  bland  smile  was  remanded  back.  Again 
the  lips  and  the  tongue  said  :  "  Ah,  you  have  a  definite  plan 
for  the  future,  have  you  not,  Miss  Vernoid  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  have  come  to  America  to  work  as  an  artist." 

"  Ah,  very  commendatory." 

"  In  my  mother's  native  country  I  hope  to  earn  friends." 

"  Ah,  doubtless  you  will  do  so.  No  people  are  more  ready 
to  acknowledge  persevering  talent  than  Americans.  You 
will  have  to  be  patient,  however,  until  you  become  known. 
You  know  our  great  Longfellow  says  : 

"  '  Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait.* " 

"  I  am  willing  to  labor,  and  expect  to  wait,"  was  my  curt 
reply. 

The  condescendingly  patronizing  manner  which  M.  Petit 
man  had  suddenly  assumed,  instead  of  making  me  feel  small 
and  meek,  was  fast  lifting  me  to  a  high  altitude  of  con 
tempt. 

"  It'  you  are  willing  to  labor  and  expect  to  wait,  you  are 
propped  for  life,  and  need  no  assistance,"  was  his  amiable 
reply.  "  If  you  succeed,  I  will  introduce  you  with  great  plea 
sure  to  many  of  my  distinguished  friends.  Mrs.  Petitman, 
who  is  passionately  devoted  to  art,  will  then  visit  your  studio. 
Ah  !  It  would  afford  me  pleasure  to  invite  you.  to  partake  of 
the  hospitalities  of  my  house;  but  we  are  just  now  crowded 
with  distinguished  visitors — Professor  Kno\yitall — you  have 
heard  of  him,  without  doubt,  even  in  France  ;  Dr.  Stuff  head — 
you  probably  heard"  his  name ;  and  the  charming  poetess, 
MissLillion  Languish— you  must  have  heard  of  Aery  with  my 
very  particular  friend,  Lady  Magnificent,  who  is  now  on  an 
American  tour,  and  makes  my  house  her  home  while  upon 


Mrs.  Skinher  and  a  Few  of  her  Boarders.       53 

this  side  of  the  water.  So  it  would  be  quite  impossible — quite 
impossible,  ah." 

All  this  was  said  in  a  strange,  hesitating  tone,  caused  by 
the  three  desires  struggling  in  his  mind  at  once.  The  desire 
to  mention  his  "  distinguished"  visitors,  the  desire  to  appear 
polite,  and  the  special  desire  to  remain  unencumbered  by  the 
household  presence  of  an  unknown. 

"  M.  Petitman  does  me  great  honor,"  I  replied  ;  "  but  under 
no  circumstances  could  I  accept  his  hospitality.  If  he"  will  be 
kind  enough  to  direct  me  to  a  private  boarding-house,  a  quiet 
and  refined  home,  he  will  confer  the  only  favor  I  c'ould  pos 
sibly  receive." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  little  man,  suddenly  radiating  with  benevo 
lence,  the  oil  of  hypocrisy  exuding  through  his  unctuous 
skin  :  "  It  will  afford  me  most  exquisite  pleasure  to  do  you  a 
favor.  I  am  acquainted  with  a  number  of  very  genteel 
ladies  who  take  a  few  very  genteel  persons  into  the  bosom 
of  their  families.  I  think  of  one  particularly,  Mrs.  Skinher  ; 
she  accepts  none  but  persons  of  the  highest  respectability.  I 
will  write  you  a  note  of  introduction,  Miss  Vernoid,  ah." 

All  names  were  alike  to  me.  He  wrote  the  note  ;  I  thanked 
him ;  and  Mr.  Petitman  bowed  himself  out  of  my  sight. 

"Why  trouble  you  with  particulars  ?  I  saw  Mrs.  Skinher, 
and,  before  another  night,  found  myself  established  in  an  attic 
chamber  of  her  house,  with  good  old  JJannette  domesticated 
in  the  kitchen  as  "  French  pastry  cook."  This  attic  parlor, 
with  its  small  ante-room,  happened  to  be  the  only  unoccupied 
one.  My  first  impression  of  it  was  pleasant.  It  seemed  a 
retreat.  High  above  the  world,  nearer  heaven  than  most  of 
the  rooms  in  the  house,  it  suited  me.  A  carpet  of  small  pat 
tern  and  delicate  tints  covered  the  floor.  Curtains  of  white 
muslin  shaded  the  windows.  The  furniture  was  of  black 
walnut.  A  few  books  were  scattered  upon  the  small  centre 
table.  Some  simple  engravings  hung  upon  the  wall.  Mrs. 
Jenks  observed  that  these  attic  rooms  were  usually  occupied 
by  students  or  literary  people,  who  selected  them  because 
they  were  cheap,  and  because  they  were  quiet ;  that  Miss  de 
Ray,  a  very  literary  lady,  occupied  the  room  opposite ;  that 
the  one  adjoining  belonged  to  Sign  or  Orsino,  an  Italian  gen 
tleman,  a  teacher  of  languages.  Mrs.  Skinher  belonged  to 
the  community  of  respectable  widows  who  maintain  a  gen 
teel  style  of  living  by  "  keeping  boarders."  She  preferred 
a  large  house,  full  of  strangers  paying  for  their  trouble,  to 
a  small  one  in  which  she  must  live  pinched  and  wait  upon 


54  Victoire. 

herself.  Mrs.  Skinher  commenced  her  career  in  a  poor 
tenement  in  an  obscure  down-town  street.  But  patience, 
prudence,  financial  tact,  had  helped  her  on.  Block  by  block 
she  came  up,  until  now  she  found  herself  in  a  very  genteel 
street,  in  a  very  genteel  house,  tilled,  as  she  assured  me,  with 
very  genteel  boarders. 

Do  you  hate  dinner-eating  ?  I  do.  Po'etry  sits  down  at 
breakfast  in  the  young  morning,  before  the  day  comes,  witli 
its  care  and  weariness.  We  come  fresh  from  our  dreams  to 
our  coffee,  and  its  fragrance  is  sweeter  than  dreams.  An 
hour  hence  we  must  be  hard  at  work,  but  the  hour  has  not 
yet  come ;  we  give  the  moment  to  luxury.  We  slowly  drink 
while  we  scan  the  morning  paper  and  chat  about  the  news. 
We  lean  over  our  cup,  and,  slowly  dipping  up  the  nectar,  let 
it  drip  over  the  side  of  the  spoon,  a  liquid  rosary,  each  drop 
counting  some  dear  plan  for  the  day,  whose  blossoms  lean 
against  the  cheek  of  to-morrow.  People  generally  look  well 
at  breakfast,  rested  and  simple.  A  beautiful  woman  never 
looks  lovelier  than  at  this  hour,  when,  perhaps,  she  fancies 
herself  "  not  fit  to  be  seen."  More  fascinating  than  in  ball 
costume  is  she  in  her  early  simplicity,  in  her  graceful  robe, 
her  delicate  collar,  with  plain  bands  of  shining  hair.  There 
is  a  charm  about  "  tea."  When  the  day 'has  shut  its  tired 
eyes  and  departed.  When  we  have  laid  our  burden  down  at 
the  feet  of  night,  to  be  lifted  only  by  the  hand  of  another 
day.  How  fascinating  is  the  tea-table  —  its  snowy,  glossy 
damask,  its  delicate  plate,  its  light  repast,  its  balmy  tea,  its 
loving  faces !  Our  work  is  done.  We  have  earned  repose. 
Morpheus  looks. from  the  warm  fire-shadows;  and,  behind, 
Somnus  opens  before  our  yearning  eyes  the  ivory  gate  of 
dreams.  Ah,  tea  is  delightful !  but  dinner — dinner  is  sordid, 
sensual.  Around  it  no  graces  hover.  It  is  grand  and  unna 
tural.  Everybody  looks  "  dressed,"  self-conscious,  and  un 
comfortable.  Stuffed  ducks  and  stuffed  people  !  Who  looks 
handsome  at  dinner  ?  Your  hands  swell ;  your  nose  grows 
pink  ;  your  eyes  grow  little.  I  have  little  faith  in  "  the  feast 
of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul "  at  dinner. 

Such  were  my  cogitations  during  the  first  two  hours'  sit 
ting  at  Mrs.  Skinher's  dinner-table.  Near  me,  "  doing  the 
honors"  of  a  cold  ham,  sat  a  gentleman  who,  had  he  not  been 
noticed,  certainly  would  have  been  disappointed  in  his  expec 
tations  and  preparations.  He  was  small,  slight,  and  possessed 
the  precise  form  of  that  ghostly  image  which  we  see  in  physi 
ologies  under  the  title  of  "  consumptive."  His  long  neck 


Mrs.  Skinher  and  a  Few  of  her  Boarders.       55" 

protruded  over  a  scooped-out  chest.  His  long  hair  was 
combed  straight  back  from  his  face,  every  hair  hanging  in  a 
mathematical  line  over  his  straight  coat-collar.  He  had  an 
impertinent,  turned-up  nose.  His  eyes  were  black  and  spite 
ful  ;  his  mouth  prodigious  ;  his  long  lips  hung  loose  and  thin. 
He  wore  an  immaculate  white  neck-tie,  and,  I  soon  learned, 
bore  the  euphonious  title  of  "  Rev.  Jonathan  Edwards  Bun 
kum  ;"  that  he  was  an  incipient  "  divine,"  fast  ripening  in  a 
theological  school.  I  discovered  more — that  he  had  descend 
ed  from  an  unadulterated  Puritan  stock ;  that  his  ancestors 
fought  under  Cromwell,  and  the  remainder  came  over  in  the 
wonderful  Mayflower,  that  miraculous  ship  which  held  so 
many  people's  ancestors ;  that  he,  the  Reverend  Jonathan, 
was  the  valedictorian  of  his  college  class ;  that  he  could  say 
with  great  pomp — "  When  I  was  in  Europe ;"  that  he  had 
spent  three  months  in  London,  as  many  in  Paris,  in  which  he 
never  dined  at  a  second-class  hotel,  nor  rode  in  a  second-class 
car ;  that  he  very  much  admired  the  governments  of  the  old 
country,  and  equally  despised  that  of  the  new  ;  that  an  aris 
tocracy  was  the  order  of  God,  and  that  democracy  was  an 
absurdity ;  and  also  that,  in  his  own  estimation,  "  Reverend 
Jonathan  Edwards  Bunkuin"  was  the  pivot  upon  which  the 
world  turned.  , 

These  facts  I  discovered  from  the  gentleman's  remarks.  Near 
by  sat  a  lady  whom  he  addressed  as  "  Mrs.  Wiggins."  She 
was  magnificently  attired,  with  a  diamond  upon  her  finger, 
which,  as  she  afterward  assured  me,  was  "  of  the  purest 
water."  A  pair  of  fine-colored,  fine-shaped  eyes,  rescued  her 
face  from  positive  ugliness.  Even  these,  when  'they  emerged 
from  their  artificial  smiles  in"  their  naked  light,  had  an  expres 
sion  sly,  selfish,  snakish.  Her  complexion  was  sallow;  her 
long,  narrow  chin  and  thin  lips,  sinister.  She  referred  often 
to — "  When  I  was  at  boarding- school ;"  and  I  found  that  she 
was  the  product  of  a  very  fashionable  intellectual  nursery,  a 
plant  of  a  very  common  genus.  Whatever  she  had  failed  to 
learn,  it  was  not  the  art  of  simpering,  giggling,  lisping ;  of  say 
ing  very  flat  things  in  a  whining,  affected  tone.  Her  smiles 
all  fell  upon  Mr.  Bunkum.  Her  artillery  of  charms  were 
directed  toward  subduing  him.  The  more  pedantic,  domi 
neering,  bombastic  grew  his  tone,  the  softlier  she  sighed — 
"Precisely;"  the  oftener  she  simpered, — "  I  agree  with  you, 
Mr.  Bunkum."  At  her  right  sat  a  little  shrivelled  old  man, 
whom,  when  she  condescended  to  address  him,  to  my  horror 
she  called  "  Tim."  He  was  Mr.  Wiggins.  Poor  old  man ! 


5b  Victoire. 

there  was  something  kind  in  his  eye,  something  pitiable  in  his 
expression,  when  he  turned  to  look  askance  upon  the  magnifi 
cent  Mrs.  Wiggins.  He,  a  widower,  old,  rich,  and  alone,  had 
married  Miss  Euphrasia  Georgiana  Smith,  that  he  might  have 
somebody  to  love,  somebody  to  love  him.  Why  she  married 
him  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  Why,  do  you  think  ? 

Next  Mr.  Wiggins  sat  a  young  man  with  an  interesting 
face.  He  was  pale,  with  a  classic  head,  covered  with  a  pro- 
fusujn  of  curling,  dark  hair.  His  eyes  were  full,  lustrous,  and 
wonderfully  soft.  They  moved  quickly  with  a  startled  look, 
as  if  half  which  they  saw  in  the  world  alarmed  them.  Clear 
as  translucent  lakes  reflecting  every  change  upon  the  sky, 
they  radiated  every  internal  emotion,  now  kindling  with  sun 
shine,  now  deepening  with  shadow.  Yet  whatever  its  mood, 
the  soul  which  looked  from  those  crystal  windows  seemed 
pure,  innocent  as  that  of  a  little  child. 

Beside  him  sat  a  woman  who  I  knew  must  be  remark 
able.  She  could  make  no  pretensions  to  youth.  Poor  Miss 
De  Ray — even  now  I  sigh  when  I  say  it — must  have  been 
fifty!  She  was  very  tall,  and  very  narrow,  and  gave  one  the 
idea  of  possessing  no  shoulders,  but  seemed  all  neck  from  her 
ears  to  her  waist.  Her  face  was  sharp  and  wrinkled.  Her 
large,  restless  eyes  looked  enger  and  anxious.  Occasionally 
\  a  wild  light  shot  from  them,  which  might  have  been  fanati 
cism,  which  might  have  been  insanity,  which  might  have  been 
-•  jjuin. 

Then  followed  the  politician  of  the  table.  He  had  red  hair, 
which  stood  erect.  And  if  any  of  the  public  journals  had 
take'n  the  trouble  to  caricature  his  face,  they  \vould  have  given 
it  the  bulldog  look.  With  vociferous  voice  he  defended  his 
favorite  demigod,  and  the  last  pet  measure  of  "  the  adminis 
tration."  He  gesticulated  violently,  sometimes  bringing  his 
knife,  sometimes  his  clenched  fist,  down  to  the  table  in  full 
force.  He  had  a  favorite  remark  which  he  offered  to  the 
company,  generally  without  much  reference  to  its  connection  : 
"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  take  my  advice — expect  nothing  and 
you'll  never  be  disappointed."  This  reiterated  truism  I  after 
wards  learned  referred  to  the  fact  that,  though  he  married  an 
heiress  with  golden  visions  of  an  easeful  future,  his  wife,  with 
an  income  of  a  cool  five  thousand  a  year,  kepi  it  sate  under 
lock  and  key  ;  so  the  gentleman  could  spend  not  a  cent  of  it 
in  attending  political  conventions,  nor  to  pay  political  sharpers 
for  the  hope  of  an  impossible  office.  Ueside  him  sat  a  beauti 
ful  creature,  a  perfect  embodiment  of  American  feminine 


Mrs.  Skinher  and  a  Few  of  her  Boarders.       57 

loveliness.  Delicate,  ethereal,  with  violet  eyes,  overflowing 
with  love,  and  serene,  spiritual  light.  Her  abundant  hair, 
golden  brow.n,  encircled  with  wavy  bands  the  whitest  of 
brows,  and  clustered  in  curls  around  the  fairest  of  all  deli- 
ciously-moulded  necks.  Vermeil  lips,  alluring  in  their  warm 
sweetness,  yet  pure  in  their  calm  curves  as  a  vestal's  own, 
smiled  over  the  pearls  which  they  but  half  revealed.  Bewil 
dering  laces  rose  and  fell  upon  her  breast ;  their  treacherous 
meshes  betrayed  the  softly  curved  arms,  and  swayed  «*ith 
seductive  grace  around  the  petite,  snowy  jewelled  hands. 
She  seemed  interested  in  all  that  was  being  said ;  met  all 
eyes  with  the  sweetest  of  unconscious  smiles,  but  took  no  part 
in  conversation.  I  heard  her,  called  Mrs.  Forrest. 

"  Mrs.  Wiggins,  I  have  been  reading  a  delightful  book  to 
day,"  said  Mr.  Bunkum.  "  I  think  it  better  adapted  to  a 
lady's  capacity  than  any  I  have  seen  for  a  longtime — Abbey's 
Child's  History ;  have  you  read  it  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  not,"  simpered  Mrs.  Wiggins ;  "  I  shall  be 
most  happy  to  procure  it  if  you  recommend  it,  Mr.  Bunkum." 

"I  do;  ladies  should  know  a  little  about  history;  and  any 
thing  as  profound  as  Macaulay  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that 
they  will  read,  or  understand  if  they  did." 

At  this  remark  the  wild  light  shot  from  Miss  De  Ray's 
eyes,  as  she  turned  them  full  upon  Mr.  Bunkum.  "  Will  Mr. 
Bunkum  allow  me  to  inquire  if  he  thinks  Macaulay's  History 
beyond  the  comprehension  of  women  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  do.  There  is  not  one  lady  in  a  dozen  who,  if  she  com 
menced  Macaulay,  would  have  sufficient  interest  to  read  it 
through." 

"You  give  woman  little  credit  for  intelligence,  Mr. 
Bunkum." 

"  Intelligence  !  Miss  De  Ray ;  man  does  not  need  intelligence 
in  woman  ;  affection — -affection  is  all-sufficient." 

"  You  think  that  men  should  have  a  sufficiency  of  the  former 
to  supply  both,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  of  course.  No  man  wishes  to  find  an  equal  in 
his  wife.  In  the  lady  who  is  to  become  Mrs.  Bunkum,  I  require 
three  essentials.  Firstly,  affection;  secondly,  beauty;  thii'dly, 
common  sense.  To  a  superior  intellect  I  should  decidedly 
object. 

"Why!  Mr.  Bunkum." 

"  Because  a  woman  does  not  need  talent.  The  more  she 
has,  the  more  she  detracts  from  her  husband's  glory.  All  that 
it  is  necessary  for  her  to  know  it  is  his  privilege  to  tell  her." 

3* 


58  Victoire. 

There  was  an  audible  flutter  among  the  ladies  at  the  table, 
except  Mrs.  Wiggins,  who  said  benignly :  "  I  agree  with  Mr. 
Bunkum.  Ladies  should  not  assume  to  know  as  much  as 
gentlemen.  What  do  you  think  of  those  who  attempt  to 
write  books  ?"  and  her  eyes  turned  a  malicious  glance  towards 
Miss  De  Ray. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Bunkum,  with  an  abortive  attempt  to 
inflate  his  inverted  chest,  "  that  they  would  be  much  better 
employed  washing  their  children's  faces.  But  I  cannot  .con 
ceive  how  a  woman,  one  worthy  of  the  name,  with  the  shrink 
ing,  the  sensitiveness,  the  weakness  inherent  to  her  sex,  could 
ever  allow  her  name  to  appear  in  a  public  print;  she  cannot, 
and  be  a  true  woman," 

"  Does  Mr.  Bunkum  believe  that  all  American  women,  who 
are  authors,  to  become  such  have  sacrificed  all  that  is  best  iu 
their  womanhood  ?"  asked  Miss  De  Ray. 

"  Precisely ;  that  is  precisely  what  I  believe.  A  woman, 
possessing  the  true  delicacy  of  her  sex,  will  shrink  from  having 
her  name  even  mentioned  by  strangers." 

"  What  do  you  consider  to  be  the  duty  of  a  true  woman, 
Mr.  Bunkum  ?" 

"To  obey  and  love  her  husband,  to  love  and  to  care  for  her 
children,  make  up  the  whole  duty  of  woman." 

"  These  are  a  portion  of  her  duties,  Mr.  Bunkum.  But  a 
true  woman  is  one  who  nurtures  every  faculty  which  God 
has  given  her  until  her  whole  nature  blossoms  into  symme 
trical  beauty.  Such  a  woman  is  loving,  obeying,  naturally 
the  laws  of  love.  But  affection  cannot  absorb  all  her  powers. 
Man  needs  sustenance  for  his  intellect  as  well  as  his  heart. 
So  does  woman.  The  more  comprehensive  is  her  nature, 
the  deeper  her  experience,  the  more  profound  her  capacity 
to  love." 

"You  are  transcendental,  Miss  De  Ray.  I  do  not  under 
stand  you  ;  and  I  doubt  if  you  understand  yourself.  We  WIMV 
speaking  of  female  authorship.  I  am  opposed  to  it  in  toto. 
For  two  reasons;  firstly,  women  have  not  talent,  genius,  to 
write  books  of  a  high  order;  secondly,  their  books  are  not 
needed." 

"  Women  have  had  everything  to  discourage  them,  and  yet 
have  there  not  been  women  whose  works  would  do  honor  to 
any  man  ?"  asked  Miss  De  Ray. 

"None  whose  productions  I  would  be  willing  to  own. 
Madame  De  Stael,  I  suppose,  you  rank  among  the  first.  She 
would  have  made  a  most  flimsy  man.  But  leaving  talents  out 


Mrs.  Skinher  and  a  Few  of  her  Boarders.       59 

of  the  -question,  I  am  opposed  to  female  authorship,  because 
it  tempts  woman  from  her  true  sphere.  I  had  a  sister  once 
who  had  a  passion  for  writing.  The  gift  is  inherent  in  the 
Bunkum  family.  For  a  woman,  she  wrote  uncommonly  well. 
But  I  knew  that  if  she  composed,  she,  in  time,  would  be 
tempted  to  publish.  I  could  not  endure  the  thought,  and 
forbade  her  the  use  of  her  pen.  It  came  hard  to  her  at  first. 
She  said — 'That  she  must  give  some  expression  to  her  inward 
life  or  die.'  I  told  her  that  she  could  tell  her  feelings  to  me, 
which  would  be  all  sufficient.  She  never  used  her  pen  again, 
except  to  copy  household  receipts  and  to  write  family  letters. 
She  died  before  she  was  twenty-three,  and,  although  she  never 
said  so,  I  am  certain  that  she  thanked  me  to  her  dying  day 
in  not  allowing  her  to  unsex  herself,  nor  to  enter  into  compe 
tition  with  her  brothers,  who  are  all  writers  or  public  speakers. 
And  I  have  been  spared  the  shock  of  seeing  the  name  of  a 
female  of  my  family  in  a  vulgar  newspaper." 

"  How  disagreeable  that  would  have  been !"  sighed  Mrs. 
Wiggins. 

"  Yes,  it  would  have  been  very  distressing  to  you,  Mr. 
Bunkum ;  but  if  you  never  have  greater  reason  to  be  shocked 
with  any  member  of  your  family,  you  will  be  very  fortunate," 
said  Miss  De  Ray. 

"  You  need  borrow  no  trouble  on  my  account,  Madam.  I 
shall  always  be  able  to  rule  my  own  house.  Before  marriage, 
I  intend  that  the  future  Mrs.  Bunkum  shall  promise,  in  all 
things,  to  submit  to  the  requirements  of  the  gospel." 

"  She  may  claim  the  privilege  of  deciding  for  herself  what 
the  requirements  of  the  gospel  are.  American  women  have 
a  high  spirit,  and  the  same  insatiate  love  for  liberty  which 
characterizes  American  men,"  said  Miss  De  Ray. 

"Grace  conquers  nature,  Madam.  The  first  lesson  which 
I  shall  teach  my  wife,  is  that  she  must  implicitly  obey ;  that 
my  will  is  her  law  ;  that  I  am  not  only  my  own  master,  but 
that  I  am  also  hers.  I  shall  owe  her  this  lesson  as  my  first 
duty.  A  husband  is  responsible  for  the  salvation  of  his  wife. 
Indeed,  I  think  that  it  is  only  on  account  of  her  relation  to 
man  that  woman  is  saved.  I  have  made  it  a  subject  of  deep 
study.  I  have  searched  the  best  Greek  lexicons,  and  find  no 
word  in  the  original  which  convinces  me  that  females  are 
especially  included  in  the  plan  of  salvation.  But  gallantry 
impels  me  to  place  as  large  a  construction  as  possible  upon  the 
designs  of  God.  On  the  whole,  I  rather  desire  that  the  frailer 
half  of  humanity  should  be  admitted  into  the  celestial  kingdom." 


60  Victoire. 

As  Mr.  Bunkum  said  these  words,  he  bowed  and  stretched 
his  thin  lips  over  his  ferocious  jaw  in  a  ghastly  grin,  which 
he  intended  as  a  most  gracious  smile  for  Mrs.  Wiggins. 

"  I  intend  that  the  future  Mrs.  Bunkum  shall  be  a  very  hap- 

?y  woman,"  he  added.  "  I  shall  seem  severe  at  first,  while 
am  breaking  her  will,  but  afterwards  I  shall  teach  her  to 
see  the  beauty  there  is  in  entire  trust,  in  perfect  submission. 
When  our  relations  are  perfectly  adjusted,  it  will  be  my  de 
light  to  supply  all  her  wants  without  ever  asking  her  what 
they  are." 

Poor  Miss  De  Ray  was  keenly  excited.  She  twitched 
nervously,  and  her  eyelids  trembled  over  her  restless  eyes. 
But  the  fretted  soul  in  that  jarred  frame  was  no  match  for 
the  bulldog  force,  the  dogged  assumption  of  the  Rev.  Jona 
than  Bunkum ;  and  Miss  De  Ray  wist-ly  said  no  more.  She 
left  the  table  before  dessert,  and,  as  the  door  closed  upon  her, 
Mrs.  Wiggins  smiled  superciliously.  Often,  while  Mr.  Bun 
kum  had  been  speaking,  I  saw  resentment,  nay,  defiance,  shoot 
'  from  her  eye  as  from  a  live  volcano ;  but  it  was  wonderful 
how  suddenly  all  fire  would  fall  back,  smothered  in  the  crater, 
lost  in  the  glare  of  Mr.  Bunkum's  smile.  As  Miss  De  Ray 
departed,  she  said  to  that  august  individual — "  Are  you 
a  ware  that  Miss  De  Ray  is  an  authoress,  Mr.  Bunkum  ?" 

"  I  am  aware  that  she  looks  like  one — female  authors  are 
usually  frights,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  the  duty  of  every  lady 
to  be  beautiful ;"  and  the  smile  and  bow  which  accompanied 
these  words  seemed  to  say  to  Mrs.  Wiggins — "  You  have 
done  your  duty." 

She.  smirked  consciously,  and  said :  '  Oh !  Mr.  Bunkum,  that 
is  quite  impossible  for  all,  you  know  !" 

"  Well,  if  nature  has  not  been  kind,  a  woman  need  not 
make  herself  odious  by  turning  into  a  has  bleu." 

"  Miss  De  Ray  does  not  assume  to  be  very  profound.  She 
writes  children's  books.  She  is  now  very  busy  with  a  silly 
thing  which  she  calls  the  A-B-C-darian.  She  is  very  anxious 
to  introduce  it  into  all  the  public  schools.  For  my  part,  I 
think  her  insane." 

"Probably,  or  she  would  go  and  teach  her  brothers'  and  sis 
ters'  children,  and  leave  the  care  of  the  public  schools  to 
those  to  whom  they  belong." 

Thus  ended  the  first  sayings  which  I  heard  from  the  mouth 
of  Rev.  Jonathan  Bunkum.  He  flourished  his  napkin,  placed 
it  in  his  silver  ring  with  three  pompous  "  Ahems !"  and  with 
a  bow,  left  Mrs.  Wiggins  and  the  ham  "  alone  in  their  glory." 


Boarding-House  Life.  61 

These  being  the  only  objects  which  he  seemed  to  think 
worthy  of  his  undivided  attention,  and  the  only  ones  to 
which  he  was  capable  of  doing  perfect  justice. 

While  passing  through  the  last  hall,  as  I  went  to  my  room, 
a  sound  startled  me  and  arrested  my  steps.  I  listened.  It 
came  from  Miss  De  Ray's  room,  a  deep,  half-suppressed,  ago 
nized  sob.  One  followed  another  in  slow,  painful  succession. 
It  was  the  live  sob  of  a  convulsed  heart.  Within  its  compass 
seemed  compressed  the  sorrow,  the  disappointment,  the  pain 
of  a  whole  life.  It  smote  my  soul.  I  said  to  myself — "  Mr. 
Bunkum  may  abuse  female  authors ;  Mrs.  Wiggins  may  scorn 
you,  if  she  pleases;  I  like  you,  poor  Miss  De  Ray;  and  if  I 
dared,  would  come  in  and  tell  you  so."  But,  as  it  was,  I  entered 
my  own  silent  retreat.  I  sat  down  and  thought  of  Mr. 
Bunkum.  He  was  a  new  specimen  of  a  man  to  me.  Did  he 
represent  the  men  of  America  ?  Did  the  free  government 
engender  tyrants  ?  He  was  a  tyrant,  I  knew.  My  last  thought 
that  night  was  Mr.  Bunkum,  after  which  I  again  devoted  my 
self  to  eternal  celibacy. 


BOARDING-HOUSE   LIFE. 

An  indolent,  objectless,  listless  life  seemed  that  of  the  lady 
boarders.  If  their  existence  had  an  object,  it  must  have 
been  already  attained,  for  they  were  guiltless  of  either  physi 
cal  or  mental  exertion.  "  Nothing  to  Do"  was  stamped 
alike  upon  their  delicate  hands,  and  upon  their  expressionless 
faces.  In  a  room  warmed  to  a  tropical  heat,  upon  a  luxurious 
sofa,  they  would  lie  through  all  the  day,  reading  the  last  sen 
sation  story,  playing  with  the  rings  upon  their  waxen  fingers, 
dreaming  the  softest,  it  may  be,  the  silliest  of  dreams.  When 
night  crept  down  into  the  beleaguered  street,  and  the  gas 
waved  its  banners  of  flame  athwart  the  sombre  walls  of  the 
houses,  and  flooded  their  rooms  with  radiance,  they  would 
languidly  assume  the  dignity  of  martyrs,  and  allow  themselves 
to  be  dressed  for  dinner.  When  variety  came  to  their  apart 
ment  it  was  usually  in  the  form  of  a  worn  dressmaker,  who, 
day  after  day,  Avould  sit  before  them,  fashioning  wTith  weary 
fingers  the  most  costly  fabrics  into  faultless  robes ;  or  a  lady 
splendidly  attired  would  call  to  discuss  the  last  opera,  the  last 
ball,  the  newest  style,  with  all  the.  prospective  weddings  and 
births  within  the  circle  of  acquaintance.  When  the  heavens 


62  Victoire. 

were  cloudless  and  the  day  beguiling,  the  ladies  would  arouse 
themselves  to  severer  exertion.  The  faultless  robes  were 
hung  upon  the  faultless  form,  and  the  beautiful  wearer  went 
for  a  drive  or  promenade  in  Broadway.  And  one,  I  breathe 
her  name  most  tenderly — dear  Rose  Forrest — whose  gentle 
heart  yearned  to  be  a  ministrant  of  love,  she  wen't  and  taught 
the  children  in  the  Ragged  School.  True,  she  went  in  an 
enamelled  coach,  went  radiantly  attired,  and  the  poor  little 
sinners  whom  she  taught  were  too  busy  looking  at  their  beau 
tiful  teacher  to  learn  either  to  read  or  sew ;  but  she  wanted 
to  do  good,  she  wanted  to  be  good,  and  this  want,  unuttered 
though  it  was,  gave  a  seraphic  softness  to  her  eyes,  a  celestial 
sweetness  to  her  smile,  while,  all  unconsciously  to  herself,  it 
lifted  her  into  a  serener  atmosphere  of  being  than  that  inha 
bited  by  her  ephemeral  companions. 

But  on  ill-omened  days,  when  the  sky  was  sulky  and  the 
very  air  fretful  and  teasing,  the  bad  temper  of  the  weather 
would  steal  like  contagion  into  human  hearts.  Then  no  story 
book,  no  day  dream,  no  new  dress  even,  could  restore  the  lost 
equilibrium  of  amiable  dulness  to  the  fair  occupants  of  the 
sofas.  They  would  suddenly  become  gregarious,  and,  congre 
gating  in  different  rooms,  would  serve  up  for  each  other's 
taste  minute  dishes  of  gossip  and  scandal.  The  last  dinner 
talk,  Mr.  Bunkum,  Miss  DeRay,  the  looks,  manners,  and 
foibles  of  each  absent  person  would  be  most  thoroughly  mas 
ticated.  Then  would  follow  more  secret  revelations.  Snatches 
of  private  conversation  overheard  in  halls  ;  family  secrets, 
which,  in  some  mysterious  way,  had  penetrated  into  feminine 
ears  within  inviolate  closets ;  the  deplorable  state  of  feeling 
existing  between  Mr. and  his  wife;  followed  by  commi 
seration,  denunciation,  and  doubtful  sighs.  All  were  blamed, 
few  praised,  the  world  itself  condemned,  and  the  ladies  would 
separate,  each  meekly  believing  herself  to  be  the  only  one  ot 
her  acquaintance  "fit  to  live."  Some  had  children,  but  they 
were  left  entirely  to  the  charge  of  nurses.  Of  the  holy  minis 
try  of  motherhood — the  beautiful  cares  and  hallowing  joys 
of  a  home  which  make  the  sweetest  life  of  every  real  woman 
— these  ladies  had  read,  but  knew  very  little  of  them  in  rea 
lity,  and  cared  less. 

It  was  like  transition  from  one  world  to  another  to  pass 
from  my  Languedoc  home  to  live  in  a  New  York  boarding- 
house.  The  different  phases  of  humanity  afforded  me  enter 
tainment,  the  dinner  table-talk  amusement,  yet  I  instinctively 
felt  that  my  actual  life  must  be  lived  in  the  silence  of  my 


Boarding-House  Life.  63 

room  and  the  solitude  of  my  own  nature.  A  glowing 
thought,  a  definite  purpose,  had  already  shaped  in  rny  brain. 
I  would  begin  my  first  great  work.  I  would  paint  a  picture, 
which  would  command  for  me  reputation  for  genius  and 
remuneration  for  labor.  My  faith  in  my  success  amounted  to 
presumption.  It  was  not  belief  in  my  own  power  that  made 
me  confident,  but  love  for  the  subject  which  I  had  chosen.  I 
knew  that  in  a  thousand  endeavors  I  might  fail,  but  in  this  I 
could  not,  for  it  would  be  an  embodiment  of  love.  I  should 
infuse  my  soul,  its  deepest, warmest,  strongest  life,  into  my  own 
creation.  How  it  glowed  before  my  mental  vision  in  the 
rarest  colors  of  reality,  my  picture  that  was  to  be  !  It  was 
Frederick's  death  scene — the  mountains,  the  river,  the  cot 
tage,  the  verandah,  with  the  roseate  sunset  flushing  all ;  Frede 
rick  reclining  upon  his  couch,  his  dying  eyes  unlifted.  Above, 
through  a  luminous  veil  of  mist,  shone  the  face  of  Beatrice. 
Suffering,  yearning,  longing  love,  looking  no  longer  from  the 
marvellous  eyes ;  but .  love  ineffable,  beatified,  triumphant, 
drawing  him  upward  with  irresistible  attraction.  Above 
her,  still  further  withdrawn  within  the  mysterious  veil,  dimly 
looked  down  two  other  faces — my  father  and  mother.  By  my 
side,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  dying,  stood  the  stranger — the  one 
sad,  sweet  mystery  of  my  life.  Why  did  my  hand  tremble 
and  my  being  thrill  at  the  memory  of  that  face  ?  Why,  in 
recalling  each  lineament  until  it  shone  palpably  before  me  in 
its  ideal  presence,  I  found  richer  society  than  the  company  of 
the  living  could  bestow,  they  who  know  best  the  mystery  of 
the  human  heart  perhaps  can  tell. 

I  commenced  my  picture.  It  absorbed  me.  I  arose  from 
my  couch  and  sat  down  to  it.  I  went  mechanically  to  my 
meals,  only  to  return  to  it.  I  ate  in  silence  ;  simpering,  hypo 
crisy,  bombast,  were  nothing  to  me  now ;  they  neither  dis 
turbed  nor  amused  me.  I  passed  the  lighted  parlors,  with 
their  music  and  mirth  ;  passed  the  ladies  chatting  in  the  halls, 
to  return  and  gaze  in  silence  into  the  dawning  faces  of  my 
loved  ones.  Day  by  day  they  grew,  gradually  unfolding  into 
the  warm  lineaments  of  life  beneath  my  touch,  until  at  last 
these  faces  were  no  longer  pictures  but  souls ;  and  I  seemed 
to  breathe  again  in  the  living  presence  of  the  only  beings 
whom  I  had  ever  loved. 

Winter  passed.  The  snows  melted  from  the  house-tops, 
falling  in  warm  rain  from  the  flooded  eaves.  From  their  sooty 
winter  covering  'the  pavements  emerged  clean  and  warm 
Cumulous  clouds,  radiant  harbingers  of  pleasant  weather, 


64  Victoire. 

floated  up  from  the  region  of  the  "Bay,"  and,  reposing  upon  the 
pellucid  ether,  hung  their  white  panoplies  of  promise  above  the 
waiting  city.  Life  grew  jubilant.  Even  the  organ-grinders 
beneath  the  windows  played  a  merrier  tune.  Breeze  and  beam, 
laden,  I  thought,  with  the  last  summer's  sweets,  came  stealing 
in  to  woo  me  out  into  the  presence  of  the  great  Mother  of 
all.  Nature  said  "  come !"  and  I  went.  I  saw  no  Boulevards, 
no  Champs  Elysees,  no  gorgeous  palaces,  no  forest  parks, 
with  their  umbrageous  shade,  their  misery,  pomp,  and  revelry; 
but  found  little  green  oases,  spots  of  rest,  lying  here  and  there 
upon  the  dusty  heart  of  the  city. 

I  loved  Union  Park  the  best.  I  loved  its  bright  patches 
of  grass  in  which  the  dandelion  showered  its  stars ;  its  femi 
nine  maples,  shaking  their  breezy  skirls  in  the  glad  spring 
sunshine.  And,  when  they  were  touched  with  hectic  and 
leaned  in  love  against  each  other,  dying  beautifully,  meet 
types  of  the  frailest  and  fairest  of  the  human  race  who  blossom 
and  perish  early,  they  touched  my  heart  as  nearly.  There 
the  fountain  showered  its  liquid  stars;  there  gay  children 
gathered  and  frolicked  in  the  sunshine ;  there  birds  warbled 
their  sweetest  idyls.  I  would  sit  in  some  sun-warmed  spot 
and  watch  the  little  ones.  Their  music  made  me  glad  ;  their 
young  life  stirred  my  own.  The  pretty  German  fratileins  in 
white  caps,  who  knew  me  because -I  smiled  upon  their  bonny 
baby  charges,  would  come,  and  holding  up  a  patrician  rose 
bud,  say :  "  Isn't  mine  the  prettiest  ?"  And  I  could  satisfy 
them  only  by  assuring  them  that  all  were  "prettiest,"  when 
each  would  toss  her  baby  in  the  air  and  go  away  content. 

April  shut  her  tearful  eyes.  May  laughed  above  the  shoulder 
of  her  weeping  sister.  I  saw  the  buds  burst ;  I  saw  the  young 
leaves  come  out  to  kiss  the  spring ;  saw  the  fountain  bathe 
the  feverish  brow  of  the  year's  adolescent  days;  and  simply 
to  live,  to  drink  in  sun  and  song  and  odorous  air,  to  thrill  to 
the  touch  of  the  electric  wind  till  every  pulse  seemed  sur 
charged  with  a  new  magnetic  life — only  to  breathe  was 
ecstasy. 

Summer  came.  The  butterflies  flitted  away  from  the  parlors 
below  to  the  breezy  hills  and  to  the  invigorating  sea.  Only 
the  inhabitants  of  the  attic  remained.  The  attic's  warbler, 
Miss  De  Ray,  still  piped  her  languishing  lyrics  in  the  room 
opposite.  Soft-eyed  Orsino,  the  Italian  teacher,  still  went 
and  came  from  his  daily  tasks.  While  I,  unchanged,  sat  a 
worshipper  in  the  midst  of  my  gods.  No  wonder  Mrs.  Skin- 
her  made  the  remark  which  she  did :  "  I  always  have  very 


Orsino.  65 

peculiar  people  in  my  attic."  If  the  attics  of  New  York  would 
disgorge  their  inhabitants  to-day,  a  greater  variety  of  remark 
able  people  would  be  seen  than  all  the  soirees,  receptions,  and 
assthetic  clubs  of  a  season  can  produce.  To  the  attic  comes 
fallen  greatness,  disappointed  hope,  aspiring  genius,  the  refugee 
from  other  lands,  the  seedy  philosopher,  the  penniless  poet. 
Too  light  of  gold  to  gravitate  to  a  lower  level,  they  ascend  to 
the  attic  by  the  force  of  a  natural  law.  Here  life  is  lived, 
seldom  in  comedy,  but  often  in  direful  tragedy.  How  often 
I  have  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  top  of  a  stately  mansion,  to  the 
narrow,  prison-like  windows  which  crown  its  summit,  and 
said :  "  I  wonder  who  rooms  in  the  attic  ?" 


ORSINO. 

Orsino,  the  Italian  teacher,  was  the  young  man  whose  face 
attracted  my  attention  pleasantly  at  my  first  dinner  at  Mrs. 
Skinher's.  There  was  something  in  his  eyes  which  touched 
me.  They  did  not  move,  they  only  touched  me,  stirring  in 
my  breast  the  slumbering  pool  of  pity.  I  saw  that  he  was 
one  of  those  aeolian-strung  beings  upon  whom  every  passing 
influence  can  play,  bringing  out  a  wail  or  a  melody.  One  of 
those  unconscious  human  Christs  who  have  come  into  the 
world  to  suffer  for  the  follies  and  sins  of  others.  I  often  met 
him  upon  the  stairs,  passed  him  in  the  halls,  and  we  had 
learned  to  bow  and  smile  upon  each  other,  and  that  was  all. 

But  one  evening  as  I  sat  alone,  as  usual,  looking  at  the 
growing  faces  upon  the  canvass  before  me,  a  shadow  fell  upon 
the  threshold,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  Orsino.  He  stood  in 
the  open  door  with  a  look  of  embarrassment  upon  his  face,  as 
if  he  hardly  had  decided  whether  to  enter  or  withdraw.  "  Will 
the  Signora  pardon  ?"  he  asked,  hesitatingly,  as  he  caught  my 
uplifted  eye.  "  I  have  heard  much  of  the  Signora's  picture ; 
I  have  come  to  see  it ;  I  thought,  perhaps,  it  would  make  me 
think  of  those  I  used  to  see  in  my  own  countiy." 

"  You  are  welcome,"  I  replied ;  "  but  if  you  have  looked 
upon  the  paintings  of  Italy,  you  will  see  little  to  please  you  in 
the  work  of  an  amateur." 

"  Ah,  this  is  beauty  !"  he  exclaimed,  advancing,  and  gaz 
ing  directly  at  the  portrait  of  my  mother — the  same  which 
won  my  childish  love  upon  the  walls  of  Les  Delices.  "  This 

5 


66  Victoire. 

is  like  the  Madonna  to  whom  I  used  to  pray,"  and  he  crossed 
himself  reverently. 

I  knew  that  one  who  had  such  eyes  as  Orsino  must  be  a 
worshipper  of  the  beautiful.  He  was  not  profuse  in  adulation; 
be  did  not  tire  me  with  exclamations  of  "How  beautiful!" 
"  Oh,  how  lovely !"  but  his  changing  check  and  enkindling 
eye  betrayed  a  delicate  appreciation  more  deliciously  grati 
fying  to  me  than  a  room  full  of  compliments.  I  eagerly 
watched  the  impression  which  my  own  painting  would  make 
upon  his  susceptible  mind — the  one  into  which  my  utmost 
being  was  infused.  When  his  eye  fell  upon  it,  he  held  his 
breath  for  an  instant.  He  looked  at  Frederick,  and,  following 
the  upturned  eye,  his  gaze  rested  upon  the  mist-veiled  face  of 
Beatrice. 

"Do  you  paint  spirits?"  he  asked.  "That  is  a  spirit. 
What  eyes !  they  were  never  made  for  earth.  I  wish  that  I 
could  see  such  a  pair  of  eyes  in  this  world." 

"  They  once  looked  upon  the  world ;  but  they  closed  early, 
and  no  wonder." 

He  looked  from  my  face  to  that  of  the  Stranger.  "  Is  this 
your  brother  ?"  he  asked.  "  You  have  the  same  look  in  your 
eyes." 

"  No !  he  is  not  my  brother.     Do  we  look  alike  ?" 

"Yes,  in  your  eyes.  You  look  as  if  you  thought  of  the 
same  things." 

"  Perhaps  we  do." 

I  had  painted  that  face  faithfully,  as  it  looked  forth  upon  me 
from  my  own  soul.  Was  it  a  likeness,  or,  after  all,  was  it 
only  a  vision  ?  Why  had  the  eyes  the  expression  of  mine  ? 
Surely  I  had  not  intended  to  paint  my  own.  So  I  thought, 
and  in  my  thought  forgot  Orsino. 

But  he  needed  no  words.  Others  had  come  to  my  studio, 
had  stared  and  taked;  he  gazed,  felt,  in  silence.  Mrs.  Wig 
gins  had  ascended  to  my  attic,  and,  after  looking  at  each  face 
through  her  lorgnette,  exclaimed  :  "My  !  how  tiresome  it  inu^t 
be  to  sit  and  paint  all  day ;  but  you  make  pretty  faces ;  I 
think  that  I  will  have  you  paint  my  portrait."  And  I  had 
answered:  "Thank  you,  Mrs.  Wiggins.  I  do  not  paint 
portraits." 

Rev.  Jonathan  Bunkum  had  asked  cynically  if  he  might 
compare  my  pictures  with  those  of  the  Louvre,  which  he  be 
lieved  I  had  had  the  opportunity  to  study.  He  came,  and, 
standing  before  the  pictures,  had  delivered  an  essay  of  techni 
cal  criticism,  duly  divided  by  naked  "  heads,"  from  firstly  to 


Orsino.  67 

the  intolerable  "  tenthly."  He  said,  in  conclusion,  with  great 
unction  :  "  I  think  I  see  some  faint  indications  of  talent.  Young 
ladies  often  have  a  taste  for  drawing — but  there  never  was  a 
woman  who  had  genius  to  make  her  a  great  painter.  This  is 
pleasant  amusement  for  the  time  being.  You  will  drop  it  when 
you  marry.  What  man  would  want  an  artist  for  a  wife !" 

What  woman  would  want  a  fool  for  a  husband,  I  thought ; 
but  only  said :  "  We  differ  in  opinion,  Mr.  Bunkum.  Art 
opens  a  wide  sphere  to  woman,  and  I  think  that  she  has  a  nature 
large  enough  to  fill  it." 

He  departed  with  a  look  of  amazement  upon  his  face — that 
any  woman  should  have  the  audacity  to  offer  an  opinion  differ 
ing  from  that  of  Rev.  Jonathan  Edwards  Bunkum. 

But  here  had  come  a  simple  spirit,  who  in  silence  looked 
through  the  visible  symbol  to  the  invisible  soul.  Here  was 
no  affectation,  no  pretension.  He  simply  gazed  and  felt.  And 
I,  in  silence,  accepted  his  unspoken  sympathy. 

Perhaps  the  gratitude  in  my  heart  shone  in  my  eyes ;  for 
when  I  said,  as  he  turned  to  depart — "  Do  not  be  in  haste, 
Signor  Orsino,"  his  countenance  suddenly  radiated.  If  I 
cannot  speak  sincerely,  I  say  nothing.  If  the  eyes  which  look 
at  me  do  not  say,  "  You  are  welcome,"  my  soul,  without  a 
word,  retires  back  to  itself.  If  I  hold  converse,  it  must  be 
beside  the  warm  fireside  of  the  heart.  I  cannot  stand  shiver 
ing  outside,  muttering  through  barred  windows.  There  were 
no  bars  across  Orsino's  windows.  I  looked  straight  through 
their  limpid  crystal  into  the  fair,  unpeopled  world  within.  I 
saw  a  beautiful  solitude  there  yet  to  be  filled. 

"  Are  you  very  lonely  in  this  strange  country  ?"  I  began. 

"  Ah  !  very,  very !"  and  a  shadow  dropped  over  the  soft 
eyes.  "  Italy  is  my  own  land  ;  all  whom  I  love  are  buried 
there." 

"  France  is  my  own  country ;  all  my  kindred  are  buried 
there."  All  whom  I  love,  I  was  about  to  say  ;  but,  looking  up, 
my  eyes  met  those  of  the  stranger  upon  the  canvass.  "  You 
are  alone  in  the  world  ;  how  sad  !"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  I  am  an  exile.  My  family  are  dead.  No  one  lives 
who  cares  for  me." 

"  I  do,"  I  was  almost  impelled  to  say,  he  looking  so  unfeign- 
edly  forlorn ;  but  a  "  sense  of  propriety"  repressed  with 
frozen  touch  the  warm,  running  ripple  of  natural  sympathy. 

"  Is  not  the  Signora  alone  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes ;"  yet  I  had  not  thought  of  that  before. 

"  Are  you  not  lonely?" 


68  Victoire. 

"  Ah,  no  ;  I  have  company  in  the  faces  of  my  friends." 

"  But  they  cannot  speak  to  you ;  they  have  no  voice ;  they 
cannot  say  :  '  I  love  you  !'  " 

"  Yes,  they  do  say  '  I  love  you ;'  they  say  so  with  their 
eyes  ;  every  moment  of  the  day  they  whisper  this  sweet  story. 
No ;  I  am  seldom  lonely ;  when  I  am,  I  go  out  into  God's 
world.  The  sky  smiles,  the  sea  smiles,  the  flowers  smile,  the 
birds  sing  and  tell  me  to  be  happy.  Sunshine,  balmy  air, 
running  water,  make  me  glad  ;  these  no  wealth  can  take  from 
me ;  they  are  God's ;  s'o  they  are  also  mine  ;  mine  to  enjoy  and 
to  love.  My  Father's  own  rich  gifts.  No,  Siguor  Orsino,  I  am 
seldom  sad,  never  miserable." 

"Yet  you  have  lost  all  your  kindred." 

These  words  awakened  a  single  pang.  It  hurt  me 'while  I 
said  :  "  Not  lost,  not  lost !  they  have  only  passed  into  another 
country,  a  radiant  one.  They  visit  me  sometimes,  and  I 
know  when  my  work  is  done  I  shall  go  to  them." 

Was  it  really  me,  saying  these  words — I  who  one  little 
year  before  had  been  so  bitter  in  my  rebellion?  Yes,  the  very 
same  ;  thus  we  pass  from  woe  to*  resignation. 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  be  so  happy,"  sighed  Orsino. 

"  Why  may  you  not  be  ?  You  own  the  earth  as  well  as  I ; 
besides,  you  are  a  man,  and  can  go  forth  in  the  great  world 
unquestioned.  Don't  you  find  anything  to  amuse  you,  to 
instruct  you,  to  make  you  happy  ?  Have  you  no  friends  ?" 

"  A  few  among  my  countrymen.  But  we  are  all  exiles ; 
we  are  all  sad.  This  is  a  great  country,  Signora,  great  and 
free.  But  Italy  is  in  chains.  We  weep  for  our  country ;  we 
cannot  save  our  country." 

I  could  appreciate  this  sorrow.  The  night  of  my  father's 
death  came  back.  I  remembered  how  he  died  for  his  country. 
I  recollected  that  I  was  the  child  of  a  hero. 

"  Poor,  poor  Italy !"  I  said,  "  no  wonder  that  you  weep 
for  her ;  no  wonder  that  you  love  her,  if  she  is  your  mother." 

"  Your  words  are  kind,  Signora.  It  seems  strange  to  hear 
kind  words." 

"  Why,  who  dares  to  be  cruel  to  you  !  You  stand  up  a 
free  man,  in  a  free  country,  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar  besides. 
Why  do  you  speak  as  if  every  one  was  unkind  ?" 

"  Not  unkind,  but  cold,  cold  ;  that  is  the  word,  Signora. 
America  is  a  cold  country.  The  American  is  cold.  He  lives 
for  himself.  He  is  in  a  great  hurry.  He  hurries  to  be  a  boy  ; 
he  h lyrics  to  be  a  man  ;  he  hurries  to  be  rich  ;  he  hurries  into 
the  grave." 


Orsino.  69 

"  Can't  you  hurry  and  keep  in  the  crowd,  Signer  ?" 

"  No,  no,  no.  I  feel  different.  I  want  not  to  hurry.  God 
does  not  hurry.  The  American  says  :  '  My  life  has  a  great 
object.'  Very  often  the  great  object  is  himself.  He  says 
much  about  duty.  Duty  sometimes  is  a  pious  name  for  selfish 
ness.  He  says  :  '  Life  is  a  struggle ;  life  is  a  battle  ;  he  must 
hurry.'  If  his  friend  dies,  he  says :  '  Poor  fellow,'  but  has  not 
time  to  go  to  the  funeral ;  he  seizes  another  friend  by  the  arm, 
and  hastens  on  ;  and  so  he  hurries,  hurries,  Signora,  till  all 
that  is  left  of  him  is  muscle  and  eyes.  I  cannot  live  so.  I  want 
not  to  hurry ;  I  feel  strange  and  alone." 

He  need  not  have  told  me  this.  You  are  alone,  I  thought ; 
but  did  not  say  so.  I  only  said :  "  You  should  have  many- 
friends." 

Again  he  went  on  :  "  The  Italian  has  a  burning  heart.  His 
friendship  is  devotion,  his  love  is  idolatry.  He  tells  it  in 
the  warm  words  of  the  South.  The  American  does  not  under 
stand  him.  If  I  should  speak  only  words  of  friendship  to  an  Ame 
rican  lady,  she  would  think  that  I  Avas  making  love  to  her. 
She  would  drawback  oifended.  I  teach  the  languages.  I  have 
a  large  class.  Many  of  them  come  from  a  distance  ;  and  when 
they  return  to  their  homes  I  know  that  I  shall  never  see 
them  again.  When  the  time  draws  near  I  grow  sad,  I  grow 
sick.  1  lose  my  appetite  ;  I  lose  my  flesh.  This  week  I  have 
lost  ten  pounds  from  grief.  They  have  not  lost  one  pound." 

I  laughed  outright.  "  Signer,  you  will  vanish  soon,  if  you 
are  going  at  such  a  rapid  rate." 

He  was  in  serious  earnest,  yet  he  did  not  seem  offended 
with  my  mirth.  He  knew  it  was  mirth,  not  mockery.  His 
words  were  despondent,  mine  joyous.  We  were  fair  examples 
of  most  of  the  cornplainers  and  comforters  "which  are  found  in 
the  world.  His  words  oozed  from  the  wounds  of  a  hurt  heart. 
Mine  flowed  from  the  fulness  of  health  and  the  depth  of  a 
buoyant  temperament. 

In  every  nature  capable  of  the  deepest  emotion,  there  is  a 
silent  under-chord  which  only  needs  to  be  touched  to  send 
forth  a  wail  of  sadness.  It  is  the  faint,  smothered  cry  of  the 
immortal,  trembling  out  amid  the  coarse  hilarity  of  human 
life.  There  are  beings  so  exquisitely  organized  that  they  seem 
one  bare  and  aching  nerve.  Around  them  fold  no  harder 
tissues  to  blunt  the  agony  which  they  feel  from  the  ever- 
hurting  pressure  of  external  objects.  Such  a  being  trembles 
at  the  slightest  touch,  thrills  to  a  look,  may  be  wounded  by 
a  word.  This  is  the  organism  of  genius  ;  and,  when  the  crea- 


jo  Victoire. 

tivo  faculty  is  given,  such  are  the  beings  who  make  incarnate 
for  the  world  the  divine  essence  of  Beauty.  To  them  all  life 
is  intensated.  They  always  live  more  years  than  are  record 
ed  for  them. 

Such  a  soul  was  Orsino. 


IMPROPRIETIES. 

A  very  unfortunate  class  is  that  which  can  never  learn 
what  the  world  calls  "  propriety."  It  seldom  includes  the 
world's  greatest  sinners,  but  always  the  world's  sufferers. 
The  law  of  God  may  be  forgotten,  but  the  law  of  Society 
must  be  obeyed.  Yet  Right  has  a  deeper  significance  than 
Appearance;  and  the  sin  of  the  world  is,  that  it  seeks  to  seem, 
rather  than  to  be  good.  The  person  who  cherishes  and 
covers  sin  in  the  soul  is  usually  the  one  most  deeply  shocked 
at  the  slightest  breach  made  in  the  bulwark  of  conventional 
ism.  Innocence  is  its  own  shield  ;  it  does  not  need  to  have  its 
hands  tied  with  a  thousand  withes  of  custom  in  order  to  keep 
it  from  mischief.  It  is  the  impure  of  heart,  the  easily  tempted, 
who  need  all  the  little  chafing  bands  which  society  ties 
on  so  well.  Society  only  says :  "  Hide.  Sin  as  much  as 
you  please,  but  hide  your  sin."  Alas!  for  the  simple,  sin 
cere  souls,  who  can  never  learn  to  be  proper ;  who  only 
ask,  "  Is  it  wrong  ?  Is  it  right  ?"  and  then  run  into  the 
face  of  the  world's  opinion.  If  they  are  sensitive  (and  they 
usually  are),  woe  to  their  lacerated  hearts.  Envy,  malice, 
and  all  uncharitableness  will  come  forth  from  their  dens  in 
hell  to  punish  their  temerity.  Woe  also  to  those  who  go 
astray,  be  it  ever  so  slightly.  Society  never  says  to  such 
unfortunates;  "Come!  I  will  lead  you  into  a  less  treacherous 
path  ;  flowers  will  blossom  there  which  are  thornless ;  there 
you1  may  breathe  airs  which  are  never  deadly,  and  gather 
fruit  which  holds  no  lurking  poison."  No!  It  rises  with  a 
scorpion  whip,  and  hunts  its  victim  to  the  door  of  the  grave. 
The  lovely  are  sacrificed  to  the  unlovely,  the  pure  to  the 
impure.  Mrs.  Grundy  rules;  gossip  and  scandal  are  her 
viceregents. 

Mrs.  Wiggins  could  despise  and  neglect  her  husband  ; 
could  cherish  evil  thought  in  her  heart  till  it  looked  like  a 
demon  through  her  eyes;  still,  to  the  world,  Mrs.  \Viggins 
was  elegant  and  accomplished — one  of  the  beau  monde,  a 


Improprieties.  71 

"  star"  in  society.  Mrs.  Wiggins  thought  it  exceedingly  im 
proper  that  Signor  Orsino  should  visit  the  studio  of  Made 
moiselle  Vernoid.  It  was  a  disgrace  to  the  house.  Mrs. 
Wiggins  should  leave  immediately  if  there  was  not  a  change. 
As  usual  in  such  cases,  the  ones  most  concerned  were  the 
last  to  learn  that  they  were  the  subjects  of  disparaging  com 
ment.  The  knowledge  came  to  me  very  suddenly  one  even 
ing.  Orsino  had  spent  an  hour  after  dinner  reading  aloud  in 
my  studio.  He  had  been  reading  from  the  German  of  Ludwig 
Uhland,  and  the  melodious  monody  of"  The  Passage"  haunted 
my  heart  after  its  reader  had  departed,  and  half  sadly  I  mur 
mured  to  myself  two  of  its  verses  : — 

"  So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 
Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 
Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 
Friends  that  closed  their  course  before  me. 

But  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore ; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more." 

The  wind  was  sobbing  outside  of  my  window — the  autumn 
wind,  with  almost  the  wail  of  winter  in  it.  As  I  listened, 
there  stole  over  me  that  first  sweet  sense  of  comfort,  that 
feeling  of  gratitude  for  shelter  and  a  home,  which  conies  to 
vis  in  the  autumn,  when  perhaps  for  the  first  time  we  nestle 
up  to  a  ruddy  fire,  saying:  "  How  pleasant  it  seems  ;"  then, 
sinking  back  in  our  chair,  yield,  unconsciously,  body  and  soul, 
to  its  soothing  glow  and  dreamy  repose. 

Thus  I  felt.  For  the  first  time  in  the  season  the  anthracite 
in  my  little  cathedral  stove  was  all  ablaze.  I  could  fancy  that 
a  mimic  sunset  was  streaming  through  its  windows  of  isin 
glass.  Every  object  in  the  room  reflected  its  radiance.  Gold 
en  shadows  rose  and  fell  on  the  white  walls,  and  hung  gold 
en  veils  on  the  faces  of  the  pictures.  Oh  !  it  was  golden 
all !  The  half  sadness  which  Uhland's  monody  had  stirre<?  in 
my  soul  had  sunk  back  quiescent,  and  I  was  peacefully  happy 
when  the  door  opened  and  Nannette  entered.  I  saw  at  a 
glance  that  she  had  come  to  lecture  me.  She  glided  like  a 
black  shadow  into  my  little  palace  of  golden  visions.  I  asked 
no  questions.  Why  ask  the  clouds  if  they  are  going  to  rain, 
when  they  hang  low  and  lowering  above  you  ? 

I  felt  happy,  doubtless  looked  so;  and  there  is  nothing  more 
vexatious  to  some  people  than  the  fact  that  you  look  happy 
when  they  think  that  you  ought  to  look  miserable.  Nannette 


72  Victoire. 

evidently  thought  it  my  duty  to  look  so  at  the  present  time, 
for  she  sat  down  with  a  very  severe  frown  on  her  good  old 
face. 

"  Ma  jeune  demoiselle  Victoire,  aimez-vous  Monsieur  Orsi 
no?"  she  inquired,  without  a  word  of  preliminary,  and  with 
out  a  smile,  looking  as  grim  and  inflexible  as  a  lump  of  granite. 

"  Folie  !     Non,  ma  chore  Nannette." 

"  Non,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"  Nbn,je  ne  Vaimepas,  est  ce  qui  a  mis  cela  en  votre  tete, 
Nannette .?" 

"  Ah,  they  say  you  be  top  much  together,"  she  groaned. 
"  Mon  Dieu,  Mademoiselle,  est-il  possible  d' }  entendre  tels  mots 
de  vous"  and  Nannette  groaned  again,  as  if  her  last  friend 
had  departed. 

" '  They  say  ?'  Nannette,  '  They  say'  tells  all  the  lies  which 
are  told  in  the  world.  I  like  Signer  Orsino  very  much.  He 
comes  and  reads  to  me,  because  he  is  alone  and  so  am  I ; 
because  he  is  a  beautiful  reader  and  I  praise  him ;  because 
I  am  fond  of  the  books  which  he  reads  ;  but  I  do  not  love 
him,  and  he  does  not  love  me.  Will  you  believe  what  I  say, 
Nannette  ?" 

"  Mademoiselle  was  carefully  taught,"  was  her  ambiguous 
reply. 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  my  question,  Nannette  ?" 

"  Madame  taught  Mademoiselle  to  behave  with  propriety  at 
all  times,"  she  said,  gazing  steadfastly  into  the  fire. 

"  Nannette !  what  do  you  mean  ?  What  have  I  done  ? 
Propriety  !  Am  I  not  a  model  of  propriety?  More,  I  am  a 
perfect  recluse;  I  go  nowhere,  I  see  no  company;  I  have  not 
made  an  acquaintance  outside  of  this  house  since  I  came  to 
America." 

"  Better  if  you  had  not  made  some  inside  of  it,"  she  inter 
rupted. 

"  Nannette,  if  yon  mean  Signor  Orsino,  I  must  tell  you  that 
you  are  very  silly.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
:il tout.  Not  a  person  in  this  house  appreciates  Signor  Orsino. 
They  don't  know  him,  for  he  lives  in  a  world  higher  than 
they  have  ever  reached." 

Of  course  Nannette  did  not  understand  this;  but,  fortu 
nately,  her  head  was  so  full  of  her  subject,  she  could  pay  little 
attention  to  the  words  which  came  from  mine. 

"  Madame  Wiggins  dit,  que  vous  etes  mauvaise,  mauvaise 
fiUe!  MonDlen!  Mon  Dieu  I  that  Nannette  should  live 
to  hear  Mademoiselle  called  mauvaise,  mauvaise  T 


Improprieties.  73 

"  Bad  ?  That  will  not  make  me  bad,  Nannette ;"  and  the 
proud  blood  of  many  generations  swept  through  my  veins  at 
the  thought  of  being  unjustly  accused.  "  I  am  cross  at  you, 
sometimes,  Nannette.  I  have  been  cross  to-night;  that  is  very 
bad,  for  you  are  my  best  friend,  ma  chere  bonne.  But  I  can 
never  perjure,  my  soul  by  conscious  evil.  I  shall  never  be 
bad  as  Madame  Wiggins  means.  Nannette,  mets-le-toi  dans 
F esprit;  qui  fait  mal,  trouve  mal.  Remember  it,  Nannette  ; 
he  who  does  evil  finds  evil.  It  is  the  secretly  guilty  who  are 
most  likely  to  accuse  the  innocent.  I  know  that  you  love  me, 
Nannette  ;  it  has  hurt  you  to  hear  me  spoken  against.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  the  issue  of  falsehood.  I  am  not  afraid  of  any 
thing  but  sin.  But  for  your  sake,  Signer  Orsino  shall  not 
come  and  read  to  me  any  more." 

"  He  can  read  to  you  in  the  parlor,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"  No,  Nannette ;  he  cannot.  He  tried  to  do  so,  but  Mrs. 
Wiggins  made  it  intolerable.  Her  sly  jests,  her  covert  insi 
nuations  to  those  around,  made  it  impossible  that  he  could 
read  or  I  listen.  Now  she  slanders  us,  because  we  absent  our 
selves  from  her  presence." 

Mine  was  no  uncommon  case  ;  the  -shrinking  sensitiveness 
of  innocence,  unjustly  judged,  is  often  seized  as  the  conscious 
ness  of  guilt.  I  could  not  blame  Najmette.  The  servants 
had  heard  Mrs.  Wiggins,  and  with  their  limited  range  of 
topics,  they  had  little  else  to  talk  about  save  the  gossip  of  the 
house.  And  my  poor  old  nurse  had  been  tormented  by  hear 
ing  her  foster-child  made  the  subject  of  their  careless  com 
ment.  Good  Nannette,  with  her  French  idea  that  a  young 
man  must  not  speak  to  a  young  woman  save  in  the  presence 
of  a  duenna,  no  wonder  she  was  shocked. 

The  next  afternoon  Orsino  came,  bringing  the  poems  of 
Henirich  Heine:  Orsino  had  been  in  Germany,  and  was 
passionately  fond  of  German  literature ;  especially  he  liked 
the  purest  and  most  melodious  of  Heine's  lyrics.  I  remember 
that  he  read  many,  one  the — 


"  I  know  not  what  it  presages, 

This  heart  with  sadness  fraught ; 
'Tis  a  tale  of  olden  ages 
That  will  not  from  my  thought 

'  The  air  grows  cool  and  darkles; 

The  Ehine  flows  calmly  on ; 
The  mountain  summit  sparkles 

In  the  light  of  the  setting  sun." 


74  Victoire. 

He  was  as  unconscious  as  usual.  lie  had  found  a  book 
which  he  knew  that  I  would  love  as  well  as  himself,  and  had 
come  to  read  it.  Whether  proper  or  improper,  he  had  never 
thought ;  therefore  did  not  know.  I  took  my  work  and  sat 
down  to  listen.  I  seized  my  task  and  began  very  industriously, 
but  it  would  fall  from  my  relaxing  fingers.  My  cheek  would 
fall  upon  my  upholding  hand,  until  at  last,  leaning  forward,  1 
forgot  everything  in  the  poet's  inspiration. 

Orsino  sat  apart  in  his  accustomed  seat  under  the  narrow 
window.  He  read  long  ;  the  splendor  of  sunset  fell  upon  his 
brow  as  the  last  words  of  the  "  Lorelei"  died  on  his  lips,  and  he 
laid  down  his  book,  leaned  his  face  upon  his  hand,  and  looked 
up.  Far  below  was  the  tumult,  the  grief,  the  sin,  of  the  great 
city  ;  the  chafing  mass  of  humanity  moaning  on — its  far-a\vay 
wail,  fitful,  dying,  rose  and  fell,  yet  we  heeded  not  its 
murmur.  Above  spread  the  glory  of  sunset,  the  promise  of 
the  open  sky,  and  this  was  all  that  we  could  see.  The  eyes 
of  Orsino  seemed  to  penetrate  heavjen.  An  aura  encircled  his 
face  and  hallowed  each  beautiful  featuie.  In.  spirit  he  had 
passed  away  from  the  book,  from  me,  from  himself.  He  was 
thinking,  and  his  thoughts  went  out  to  the  invisible.  He  made 
no  sign,  he  spoke  no  word.  The  god  in  Orsino  was  dumb.  The 
fact  that  this  exquisite  sensibility  was  always  felt  and  never 
spoken,  that  the  soul  had  no  language  by  which  it  could  con 
vey  its  subtle  and  profound  emotion,  lent  an  inexpressible 
mthos  to  Orsino's  character.  There  was  a  brow,  an  eye,  a 
smile  which  told  wondrous  stories,  but  the  lips  never  revealed 
them.  Yet  in  his  very  dumbness  he  was  closely  allied  to  the 
spiritual.  God's  sublimest  lessons  come  to  us  without  a 
sound.  Nature  does  not  syllable  her  subtler  teachings.  Spirit 
may  converse  with  spirit  without  an  audible  sign.  I  needed 
no  articulate  language  to  understand  Orsino.  I  drank  of  the 
inspiration  of  his  nature,  although  from  his  lips  fell  no  winged 
words,  betraying  the  mysterious  beauty  of  the  unfathomable 
world  within.  I  felt  an  artist's  delight  in  watching  the  end-, 
less  variations  of  his  face,  and  a  woman's  interest  in  following 
his  soul's  moods. 

Thus  I  sat  and  watched  him  now,  as  the  last  sun  rays 
quivered  and  faded  on  his  brow ;  watched  him  in  silence  until 
he  awoke  from  his  dream.  The  last  shaft  of  orange  fire  had 
pierced  the  attic  window ;  glum,  gray  light  now  covered  it 
instead.  The  golden  vision  of  the  sky  had  faded,  and  Orsino's 
soul  had  come  back  to  the  world.  He  started,  looked  around 
as  if  to  assure  himself  of  his  identity  and  surroundings,  stoop- 


Improprieties.  75 

ed  and  picked  up  "  Heinrich  Heine,"  which  had  fallen  on  the 
carpet,  looked  at  me  as  if  he  had  just  discovered  my  presence, 
and  said :  "  Ah,  Signora !  will  you  pardon  me  ?  I  forgot ;  I  was 
thinking." 

Then  for  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  some 
thing  special  to  say  to  Orsino,  and  that  now  was  the  time  to  say  it. 

"  Signor  Orsino,"  I  said,  "  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  many 
delightful  hours — the  most  delightful  which  I  have  spent  in 
America.  You  will  believe  me,  I  hope,  though  I  tell  you 
that  you  must  not  come  and  read  to  me  any  more." 

"  Read  to  you  no  more !  No  more !  Have  I  offended  you, 
Signora  ?" 

"  Offended  me !     Never  !     That  seems  impossible." 

"  Then  why  may  I  not  read  to  you,  Signora  ?" 

"  It  is  not  proper." 

"  Proper,"  he  said,  with  a  bewildered  air.     "  Proper  ?" 

Poor  fellow — he  was  master  of  a  number  of  languages,  but 
this  word  did  not  belong  to  his  vocabulary. 

"  No — it  is  highly  improper,  so  the  ladies  of  the  house 
declare,  for  Signor  Orsino  to  visit  the  room  of  Mademoiselle 
Vernoid." 

"  It  is  not  wrong,  Signora  !" 

"  Wrong  ?  No,  there  is  no  wrong  about  it ;  they  would  not 
care  if  there  were,  but  they  choose  to  consider  it  an  impro 
priety,  and  that  it  must  not  be,  and  we  must  obey,  Signor." 

"  Why  ?     It  is  not  wrong,  Signora." 

"  Wrong  or  right  is  not  the  question,"  I  said  again. 

His  simple  soul  could  think  of  no  other.  Conventionalities 
he  knew  nothing  about. 

"  Society  is  full  of  whims,  Signor  Orsino ;  and  though  at 
heart  we  may  be  no  nobler  for  doing  thus,  for  the  sake  of 
peace  we  cannot  afford  to  trifle  with  them." 

Orsino  did  not  feel  the  force  of  my  little  speech,  I  concluded, 
from  what  he  went  on  to  say. 

"  When  I  left  my  country  my  heart  was  broken,  and  in  this 
land  I  have  found  no  one  but  you  who  has  cared  for  me. 
No  one  else  has  cared  for  me  enough  to  listen  to  me  read. 
I  have  no  mother,  no  brother,  no  sister,  no  wife.  Why  may 
I  not  come  and  read  to  you,  Signora  ?  Ah,  America  is  a  cold 
country.  Americans  have  cold  hearts.  I  am  very  sad." 

He  need  not  have  told  me  this.  Poor  heart !  one  had  only 
to  look  into  his  eyes  to  see  that  sadness  had  made  them  her 
perpetual  home.  It  was  a  very  little  thing,  a  most  trivial  privi 
lege,  whose  promised  loss  he  was  bewailing ;  but  it  was  his 


76  Victoire. 

one  social  joy,  the  one  little  ewe  lamb  of  kindred  communion 
which  made  warmth  in  his  else  uninhabited  soul.  He  clung 
to  it  with  lingering  love,  not  because  he  was  weak,  but  be 
cause  he  was  human. 

Orsino  never  came  to  read  in  my  studio  again.  And  be 
cause  it  was  the  last  time,  I  have  loitered  over  its  memory 
lovingly.  Sweet  Mrs.  Wiggins  had  her  way. 

Not  very  long  after,  one  evening  at  the  dinner  table,  I  met 
the  eyes  of  Orsino  fixed  upon  me  with  a  sad,  almost  a  tearful 
expression.  Well  as  I  knew  those  eyes,  I  had  never  seen  that 
expression  in  them  before.  Some  new,  strange  experience 
had  come  to  Orsino.  What  can  it  be,  I  thought,  as  I  stood 
a  few  moments  after,  looking  up  at  the  stars  through  my  attic 
window.  Just  then  came  a  low  knock  at  my  door,  which  I 
knew.  In  a  moment  more  Orsino  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  his  slender  figure  erect,  yet  quivering  with  intense 
excitement,  his  great  eye  kindling  and  dilating  with  an 
unspoken  revelation. 

"  Victoire  I"  he  said  (he  never  called  me  Victoire  before), 
"  I  am  going.  I  am  going  to  Italy,  to  my  own  land.  I  could 
not  go  without  coming  to  you,  my  sister." 

"  Going  to  Italy !  and  why  do  you  go  to  Italy  ?  You  can 
do  Italy  no  good  ;  you  are  better  off  here,"  I  said. 

"  Can  you  ask  me  why  ?  Is  there  not  hope  ?  Will  not 
Italy  be  free  ?  Will  she  not  be  glorious  as  of  old  ?  Do  not 
Mazzini  and  Garibaldi  call  ?  Fifty  of  my  countrymen  sail 
to-morrow,  and  I  go  with  them.  Rejoice,  Victoire;  I  am 
going  to  fight  for  Italy.  Rome  shall  be  free." 

"  Rejoice !  Don't  ask  me  to  rejoice.  Don't  ask  anything  so 
unreasonable.  Signer  Orsino,  you  are  almost  the  only  friend 
I  have  in  the  world.  This  moment  I  feel  as  if  I  would  rather 
Italy  stay  as  it  is  than  lose  you." 

In  perfect  woman  fashion,  I  forgot  the  universal  in  the  per 
sonal. 

"  Oh,  Victoire,  you  are  not  a  Roman.  The  Pantheon  is  not 
yours,  nor  the  Coliseum.  You'  are  not  the  daughter  of  an 
enslaved  people,  whose  fathers  were  heroes,  or  you  would  not 
speak  thus.  Friendship  is  sweet,  but  liberty  is  sweeter.  If 
I  can  die  fighting  for  the  liberty  of  Italy,  I  choose  to  die 
rather  than  live. 

'How  can  a  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

For  the  temples  of  his  gods?'" 


Improprieties.  77 

All  men  are  sometimes  eloquent.  The  enthusiasm  enkin 
dled  by  a  great  idea  will  lift  a  man  out  of  his  every  day 
nature  and  manner  into  something  sublime.  So  seemed  Orsino 
now.  I  made  no  reply,  for  the  image  of  my  father,  as  I  saw 
him  last  alive  when  about  to  depart  on  a  similar  errand, 
stood  before  me ;  and,  for  an  instant,  I  felt  like  the  child  of  a 
hero.  But  only  for  an  instant ;  for  then  I  saw  him  as  I  saw 
him  last — gory,  ghastly — and  I  shuddered. 

"  Victoire,"  said  Orsino,  and  now  his  voice  was  low  with 
the  womanly  tenderness  of  his  nature  ;  "  Victoire,  give  me 
this  ? ''  and  he  lifted  one  of  the  curls  which  fell  upon  my  shoul 
ders. 

Without  a  word,  I  severed  it  and  laid  it  in  his  hand.  I 
had  scarcely  done  this,  when  I  started  at  a  rapid  pass  he  made 
with  his  hands,  and,  with  the  motion,  a  delicate  chain  of  fret 
ted  gold  fell  around  my  neck.  To  it  was  appended  an 
exquisitely  wrought  cross,  piercing  a  tiny  circlet  of  pearls  in 
the  form  of  a  crown. 

"  Your  emblem,  Signora,"  he  said,  looking  first  at  me,  then 
at  his  gift  encircling  my  throat.  "  This  is  mine ;"  and  he  held 
up  in  his  hand  a  chain,  the  counterpart  of  the  one  he  had 
given  me ;  but,  instead  of  a  cross  and  crown,  it  held  a  mimic 
sword  encircled  with  a  golden  wreath  of  laurel.  "  Amulets, 
both,"  he  murmured. 

"  Victoire,  Signora,  sister  mio,  keep  this  for  me.  If  you 
never  see  me  more,  remember  that  Orsino  loved  you  as  his 
last  friend." 

He  pressed  the  tress  of  hair  to  his  lips  ;  and,  taking  both  my 
hands,  he  gazed  into  my  face  as  if  his  memory  were  taking  it 
into  everlasting  keeping.  Yet  so  rapid,  so  fervent  were  his 
movements,  before  I  could  speak  he  was  gone.  I  never  saw 
Orsino  again. 

In  the  morning  no  Orsino  sat*  at  breakfast.  No  Orsino 
came  to  dinner.  No  Orsino  crossed  me  on  the  broad  stair 
case  or  spoke  to  me  in  the  hall.  Orsino  was  gone.  When 
I  realized  this,  when  I  looked  at  his  vacant  chair,  and  missed 
the  only  pair  of  eyes  which,  amid  the  many  there,  had  turned 
to  mine  with  a  look  of  affection,  I  was  conscious,  for  the  first 
time,  that  I  had  come  to  need  that  look,  and  to  depend  upon 
it  for  happiness  as  we  do  upon  an  every-day  joy.  Again  came 
over  me  the  dreary  consciousness  of  loss ;  the  feeling  that  all 
I  had  was  taken ;  that  nothing  was  left  in  the  house  or  in  the 
world  for  me. 

Yet  I  did  not  love  Orsino.     Orsino  did  not  fill  my  nature  ; 


7  8  Victoire. 

but  he  had  his  place  in  it.  His  affections  were  all  tendrils, 
and  clung  to  their  object.  Whereas,  the  nature  that  could 
absorb  my  love  must  stand  strong  arid  high,  where  mine  must 
climb  to  reach  it.  My  heart  had  never  quickened  its  beating 
at  Orsino's  looks  or  words,  yet  I  gave  him  the  affectionate 
sympathy  which  his  nature  craved.  It  made  me  happier  to 
know  that  I  could  brighten  his  life  a  little ;  I  needed  some  one 
to  care  for,  and  to  pray  for,  and  there  was  nobody  else  who 
seemed  to  care  for  me,  or  to  need  me.  Besides,  Orsino's  beau 
tiful  soul  had  been  to  me  a  pleasant  study ;  it  suggested  lovely 
pictures,  it  kindled  quiet  thoughts ;  he  was  all  that  I  had,  and 
yet  he  had  gone. 

"  The  attic  has  lost  one  of  its  inhabitants,  Miss  Vernoid : 
you  must  be  very  lonely  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wiggins  at  the  table, 
with  her  most  supercilious  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  lonely,"  I  said,  perfectly  indifferent  to  the 
construction  placed  upon  my  words,  either  by  Mrs.  Wiggins 
or  the  remainder  of  the  company. 

"  Is  there  another  one  here  whom  I  care  for  ?"  I  said  to  my 
self,  as  my  eye  ran  along  the  line  of  faces  at  the  table  til!  it 
fell  on  the  wasted  one  of  Miss  De  Ray.  Alas,  this  forlorn 
face  had  always  silently  appealed  to  me ;  and,  as  I  looked  at  it 
now  in  my  own  loneliness,  my  conscience  smote  me  that  I 
knew  so  little  of  its  owner.  Why  had  I  not  tried  to  kindle  a 
little  warmth  in  this  chilly  life ;  to  make  the  world  a  little  less 
desolate  to  one  who  seemed  utterly  alone  in  its  midst  ?  were 
questions  which  I  asked  myself,  without  receiving  any  satis 
factory  answer. 

But  if  a  dilapidated  maiden  of  fifty,  wrinkled  and  wild,  was 
less  an  object  of  interest  to  a  young  girl  than  a  young,  intel 
lectual  man,  it  was  exceedingly  human,  and  only  proves  that 
in  this  respect,  at  least,  the  young  girl  had  been  true  to  her 
normal  nature. 


A  Literary  Woman. 


A  LITERARY  WOMAN. 

I  had  never  been  able  to  get  on  very  far  with  Miss  De  Ray. 
I  had  made  slight  attempts  to  do  so,  embracing  every  availa 
ble  opportunity  to  inquire  after  her  health,  and  to  offer  any 
little  courtesy  of  word  or  act  which  might  help  to  convince 
her  that  somebody  was  interested  in  her  welfare.  She  seemed 
to  accept  slight  attentions  from  any  one  gratefully,  yet  such 
was  the  shyness  of  her  manner  that,  after  the  usual  common 
places  had  been  exchanged,  it  seemed  impossible  to  add  ano 
ther  word.  Usually  she  seemed  absent  and  melancholy.  If 
it  had  not  been  Mrs.  Wiggins's  opinion,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  I,  too,  should  have  thought  her  a  little  crazy.  I  had 
often  invited  her  to  my  studio,  yet  she  accepted  the  invi 
tation  but  once;  when  coming  up  the  stairs  with  me,  she 
came  in,  looked  at  the  pictures  hurriedly,  and,  without  com 
ment  upon  any  of  them,  with  a  sad,  half  smile,  walked  out. 
Certainly  she  possessed  far  less  tongue  power  than  is  usually 
accredited  to  women  of  her  class.  She  never  invited  me  into 
her  den,  for  den  it  was,  and  if  the  excessively  hot  weather  of 
the  summer  had  not  forced  her  to  open  its  door,  in  order  that 
she  might  breathe,  I  never  should  have  seen  what  a  frightful 
little  hole  it  was.  Write,  write,  write!  One  could  easily 
imagine  that  Miss  De  Ray  had  been  born  with  a  pen  in  her 
hand,  and  had  never  relinquished  it  for  a  moment  since. 

Through  the  long,  burning  August  days,  she  sat  from  early 
morning  until  far  into  the  night,  in  the  same  spot  bent  over  a 
little  old  table  which  held  a  pyramid  of  manuscripts,  in  which 
was  excavated  a  slight  hole,  large  enough  to  hold  the  sheet  on 
which  she  wrote  with  as  much  zest  as  if  the  perpetuity  of  the 
universe  depended  on  the  woi'ds  which  it  contained.  How 
wretched  the  room  looked  !  A  tattered  shade  hung  on  the 
window.  A  small,  bleared  looking-glass  hung  on  the  wall. 
A  scanty,  ragged  square  of  carpet  was  nailed  on  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  which  was  matted  from  beginning  to  end  with 
old  newspapers  and  disfigured  manuscripts.  A  bed,  a  few 
chairs,  with  the  old.  writing  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
completed  the  furniture. 

For  the  sake  of  Miss  De  Ray,  and  of  literary  ladies  in  gene 
ral,  I  was  glad  that  the  Rev.  Jonathan  Bunkum  had  never 
seen  this  apartment.     Directly  opposite  mine,  in  passing  tap- 
and  fro  before  its  open  door,  it  was  impossible  that  I  should 
i.ot  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  its  individuality  ;  yet 


80  Victoire. 

I  never  beheld  it  without  an  nndefinable  heart-sickness  creep 
ing  over  me,  as  I  thought  of  the  joyless  life  compressed  within 
those  four  shabby  walls.  Miss  De  Ray  had  no  hour  in  the 
day  for  exercise,  no  hour  for  rest,  scarcely  for  food.  In  silence 
she  wrote  on  through  the  long,  languid  hours  of  the  solstice, 
and  I  was  only  reminded  of  her  proximate  life  by  the  rustling 
of  her  leaves,  as  she  turned  them  over,  and  the  frequent  ner 
vous,  irritating  cough  which  tormented  me,  by  making  me 
think  what  a  torment  it  must  be  to  its  owner. 

Miss  De  Ray  seemed  to  have  no  time  for  going  out,  and 
after  I  had  given  her  undoubted  proofs  of  good  will,  she  ven 
tured  to  ask  me  to  post  her  letters  at  the  nearest  mail  station, 
as  I  passed  in  my  daily  walk.  Glad  to  do  her  this  little  ser 
vice,  every  day  for  months  I  mailed  for  her  letters  directed 
to  the  most  distinguished  public  men  of  the  city  and  State, 
but,  strange  to  say,  never  brought  back  any  replies,  and  never 
knew  of  the  mail-carrier  leaving  any  for  her  at  the  door.  It 
was  evident  that  Miss  De  Ray  was  absorbed  in  a  literary  work 
of  vast  importance  to  herself,  if  to  no  one  else.  Could  it  be 
the  A-B-C-darian  which  Mrs.  Wiggins  had  said  she  wished  to 
introduce  into  the  public  schools  ? 

The  winter  had  come,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
found  myself  dreading  the  future.  I  had  received  my  last  re 
mittance,  and,  with  the  utmost  economy,  this  would  not  supply 
my  wants  beyond  the  spring.  From  the  beginning,  I  had  had 
reason  to  think  of  the  time  as  near  at  hand  when  I  should  be 
entirely  without  resources;  but  while  there  was  yet  more 
money  to  come,  that  day  had  seemed  far  distant.  I  had  all 
the  faith  which  utter  inexperience  gives,  that  "  something 
would  happen  "  before  my  means  utterly  failed.  My  idea  of 
what  that  something  would  be  was  vague,  still  I  had  an  idea. 
My  picture,  already  nearly  completed,  I  intended  to  send  into 
the  annual  exhibition  of  the  Academy  of  Design,  and,  although 
I  thought  that  no  want  would  tempt  me  to  sell  it,  the  admira 
tion  which  I  fondly  hoped  it  would  win  would  give  me  repu 
tation  as  an  artist,  and  reputation,  work.  Foolish  child  !  I 
smile  pityingly  upon  her  visions  now.  I  had  yet  to  learn  that 
a  paying  reputation,  most  of  all  an  artist's,  conies  only  after 
long  years  of  work  and  waiting  ;  that  his  first  great  efibrt  sel 
dom  establishes  his  fame  or  supplies  him  with  the  means  of 
obtaining  bread  ;  that  before  these  great  ends  are  attained, 
Jteually  the  best  years  of  his  life  have  gone.  Sanguine  and 
believing  as  I  was,  as  the  winter  advanced  and  my  slight 
purse  grew  more  and  more  slender,  I  began  to  think  what 


A  Literary  Woman.  81 

want  might  be  like,  and  to  think  what  I  could  do  if  I  really 
found  myself  penniless.  Though  I  tried  not  to  see  it,  still  a 
cloud  seemed  to  be  rising  in  my  future  ;  scarcely  perceptible, 
it  hung  like  a  shadow  over  the  bright  horizon  of  my  dreams. 
With  all  my  faith  in  th#  good  something  which  was  to 
happen,  I  could  not  quite  forget  the  fact  that  if  the  coming 
year  copied  the  first,  it  would  not  be  prolific  of  great  results. 
In  the  programme  of  my  American  life,  I  had  recorded  for 
the  first  year  even  "  a  little  fame,  and  at  least  friends."  The 
year  had  gone,  and  I  had  neither.  I  had  no  acquaintances, 
to  say  nothing  of  friends,  and  I  knew  of  no  safe  avenue  to 
lead  me  to  new  desirable  relationships.  I  was  just  beginning 
to  learn  that  there  is  nothing  more  solitary  or  loveless  than 
the  life  of  a  young  worker,  poor,  unknown,  cast  friendless  into 
a  great  city.  I  was  learning  very  fast  that  fame  and  friends 
do  not  come  at  our  bidding.  That  if  they  are  ours  at  last,  it 
is  because  they  have  been  earned,  as  well  as  desired.  Usually 
they  are  the  hard-bought  recompense  of  persevering  toil  and 
of  patient  waiting.  I  am  not  speaking  of  butterfly  friends,  or 
of  ephemeral  honors  bought  by  wealth  or  position,  but  of 
the  royal  heritage  of  genius,  which  she  toils  and  suffers  to 
win.  It  is  not  enough  that  you  have  genius ;  the  world  wants, 
and  has  a  right  to  demand,  a  proof,  a  visible  guarantee  of 
the  God-Power  within  you.  You  must  embody  your  creations. 
You  must  transfigure  into  a  radiant  incarnation  the  impal 
pable  soul  of  beauty  conceived  and  born  in  your  own  secret, 
solitary  visions.  To  you,  beautiful  and  precious  as  it  maybe, 
with  what  fear  and  trembling  you  will  put  its  garments  on, 
lest  when  you  have  given  them  their  last  artistic  touch,  the 
world  will  look  and  see  in  your  idol  no  beauty  to  be  desired. 
Happy  for  you  if  you  have  fpr  a  friend  an  inspired  soul  with 
a  prescient  eye,  who  will  penetrate  to  the  beauty  which  the 
world  is  slow  to  see,  but  prompt  to  command  when  it  does 
see.  Holding  it  up  to  the  great  public  eye,  if  that  soul  says 
in  a  voice  which  is  law :  "  See  what  hath  been  wrought  in 
pain  and  in  poverty,  in  secret  and  in  silence,  with  working 
and  waiting.  Give  genius  its  crown."  It  will  be  received 
and  you  will  triumph.  But  if  there  is  no  imperial  soul  to 
take  your  work  from  your  hand  when  completed,  you  may 
wait  long  for  an  audience  to  do  it  honor,  weary  toiler. 

But  I  had  no  just  reason  to  accuse  the  world  of  neglect,  and 
felt  no  inclination  to  do  so.  What  had  I  done  to  deserve  iVt 
praises  ?  It  was  useless  to  deny  it,  I  was  living  a  very  self- 
contained  and  selfish  life.  What  effort  did  I  make  for  any  one 

6 


8l  Victoire. 

but  myself?  The  picture!  The  world  had  had  no  chance 
either  to  praise  or  condemn,  and  that  I  had  no  friends  was 
not  the  fault  of  people,  but  the  result  of  circumstances.  People 
were  under  no  obligation  to  seek  me  until  I  had  made  myself 
an  effort  to  be  sought  after.  • 

I  sat  philosophizing  after  this  fashion  one  afternoon,  rather 
ill  at  ease  withal,  when  I  heard  Miss  De  Ray's  door  open, 
and  instantly  after  a  faint,  nervous  knock  on  mine.  This  was 
an  unusual  occurrence,  and,  as  I  arose  and  opened  it  for  her, 
I  was  glad  to  see  one  who  needed  kindness  and  friends  more 
than  myself.  Talking  with  her,  I  thought,  would  make  me 
feel  more  thankful.  I  welcomed  her  heartily,  and,  as  I  drew 
a  chair  for  her  near  the  fire,  could  not  but  observe  how 
pinched,  and  cold,  and  miserable  she  looked.  She  coughed 
incessantly,  .and  as  I  saw  her  wasted  frame  quiver  to  the 
grateful  warmth  of  the  fire,  the  thought  struck  me  that  Miss 
De  Kay  had  none  in  her  room  that  bitter  day.  It  was  evident 
that  she  had  come  to  warm,  not  to  talk,  for  she  said  nothing. 

"  How  are  you  succeeding  in  your  literary  pursuits  ?"  I 
asked,  clumsily  enough,  eager  to  show  my  sympathy  with  her 
in  the  only  subject  in  which  I  had  any  reason  to  suppose  her 
to  be  interested. 

She  did  not  answer,  and  as  I  looked  up  I  saw  that  she  was 
weeping ;  she  shook  convulsively.  I  went  up  to  her,  laid  my 
hand  on  her  grey  hair,  drew  her  unresisting  head  to  my 
breast,  and  there  let  her  weep. 

Poor  grey  head!  since  you  lay  a  bonny  wee  thing  on  your 
mother's  bosom  who  has  ever  pelted,  or  smoothed,  or  loved 
you,  I  thought ;  while,  like  a  soothed  child,  Miss  De  Ray  wept 
on.  At  last  she  came  to  the  consciousness  of  her  strange 
position. 

"  You  must  think  it  very  strange  to  see  and  hear  me  cry," 
she  said.  "But  there  is  a  tone  in  your  voice  so  kind  that  it 
touched  my  heart.  You  must  know  that  I  am  not  used  to 
kindness.  I  have  felt  a  drawing  towards  you  since  I  saw 
you  first,  for  I  felt  that  you  have  a  kind  feeling  in  your  heart 
for  me.  I  have  not  wanted  to  draw  too  near,  lest  I  should 
chill  you  ;  for  you  know  I  am  winter,  and  you  are  spring.  I 
have  wondered  that  you  could  feel  any  sympathy  for  me, 
you  are  so  young  and  look  as  if  you  had  been  so  tenderly 
reared.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  struggle  on  in  the 
^frorld  alone,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  a  living  relation ;  I  have  been 
alone  for  nearly  two  years." 


A  Literary  Woman.  83 

"  Well,  it  is  hard  to  bury  your  friends ;  but  to  be  alone,  and 
old  and  poor,  is  harder  still.  After  all,  you  don't  know 
anything  about  the  real  struggle  of  life,  my  child — the  fierce 
struggle  for  daily  bread — and  God  grant  that  you  never 
may." 

I  thought  of  my  attenuated  purse,  but  said  nothing. 

"  As  women  are  paid,  it  is  hard  for  a  woman  to  earn  all  that 
she  eats,  and  wears,  and  needs.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  write 
for  reputation  or  for  pleasure,  Miss  Vernoid  ?  If  you  believe 
Mr.  Bunkum  and  Mrs.  Wiggins,  you  must  think  that  I  belong 
to  a  very  silly  class.  Half  the  world,  at  heart,  are  prejudiced 
against  literary  women.  They  fancy  that  they  do  from  vanity 
what  they  are  often  compelled  to  do  from  necessity.  They 
don't  know  that  they  write  for  bread.  I  write  for  bread,  for 
shelter,  for  fire.  Do  you  think  that  I  would  bend  over  a  table, 
half  frozen  from  morning  till  night,  to  write,  if  I  could  sit  in 
a  comfortable  chair  and  sew  or  read  instead?  There  is  no 
life  so  comfortless  as  a  naked  literary  one  without  the  comfort 
of  a  cheerful  home  and  of  loving  friends." 

"  Have  you  written  all  your  life  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  indeed.  At  your  age,  I  didn't  think  of  such  a  thing. 
I  was  a  farmer's  daughter,  and  taught  a  district  school.  When 
I  commenced,  I  was  full  of  energy  and  buoyant  life.  But  as  I 
taught  on,  year  after  year,  in  a  little,  close,  unventilated  school- 
house,  '  boarding  around,'  enduring  all  sorts  of  fare,  in  all  sorts 
of  houses,  and  with  all  sorts  of  people,  at  last  my  health  failed. 
My  face  grew  sharp  and  wan.  I  lost  my  elasticity.  I  lost  my 
spirits.  1  lost  my  appetite.  I  had  a  pain  in  my  side  and  a  cough, 
till  at  last  I  could  scarcely  realize  that  the  forlorn  and  laded 
'  schoolma'am,'  whom  young  women  snubbed  and  old  women 
pitied,  and  gentlemen  took  no  notice  of  whatever,  could  be 
any  relation  to  the  red-lipped  Mary  De  Ray,  who  used  to 
laugh  and  sing,  who  was  courted  and  kissed  at  sleigh  rides  and 
quiftings,  and  who  dreamed  such  rosy  dreams  of  husband, 
home,  and  cherub  children.  The  '  schoolma'am'  was  the 
,  skeleton  of  that  happy  creature.  She,  in  her  physical  and 
mental  misery,  was  just  what  such  a  Hie  makes  hundreds  of 
Mary  De  Rays  every  year.  My  father  and  mother  were 
dead.  My  brothers  were  married  to  wives  who  could  not 
be  troubled  with  a  sick,  old  maid  sister-in-law  ;  my  physician 
said  that  I  must  leave  school.  Yet  I  'must  do  something  to 
live.  In  my  long  intercourse  with  children,  I  had  learned  to 
tell  them  stories  for  rewards  at  '  recess,  and  for  pastime  in 
winter  evenings,  when  they  used  to  gather  around  me  by  their 


84  Victoire. 

homo  firesides.  I  thought  that  I  could  write  one.  Propped 
up  in  bed,  I  wrote  my  first  child's  story  on  little  slips  of  paper. 
When  completed,  I  sent  it  to  the  Sabbath-school  Union.  They 
purchased  it ;  it  brought  me  in  a  little  money,  and  so  all  my 
stories  have  brought  me  in  a  little  ;  enough  to  keep  me  alive 
until  now.  But  my  last,  a  school  book,  is  a  failure.  Some 
times  I  feel  as  I  were  failing  myself,  as  if  I  could  not  think, 
nor  write  as  well  as  I  did  once.  If  true,  it  is  not  strange ;  I 
am  growing  old." 

"  Perhaps  your  book  is  not  a  failure,  after  all,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  it  is.  I  have  applied  to  all  the  principal  men  who 
are  interested  in  education  for  their  influence  to  introduce 
my  '  A-B-C-darian'  into  the  public  schools,  but  with  no  effect. 
They  are  too  busy  to  look  at  the  book,  or  too  indifferent.  I 
am  a  stranger  to  most  of  them,  and  to  those  who  know  me  I 
am  only  a  grey-haired  old  maid,  whose  books  and  whose  pre 
sence  are  both  a  nuisance.  They  don't  know  that  while  I 
have  been  writing  it  I  had  not  a  cent  to  pay  my  last  month's 
board  nor  to  buy  a  little  coal  to  warm  my  stiff  fingers ;  that, 
old  and  homeless,  I  have  only  pain  and  want  and  the  grave 
in  my  future  ;  if  they  knew  all  this,  perhaps  they  would  be 
kinder.  Still,  they  who  guard  their  wives  and  children  so 
lovingly  may  think  that  a  woman  who  has  neither  father, 
lover,  nor  husband,  has  no  business  in  the  world.  I  am  sure 
I  am  willing  to  die.  Earth  is  bleak  to  me.  I  hope  that  heaven 
is  a  warmer  country." 

And,  with  these  words,  the  forlorn,  grey  head  nestled 
closer  to  my  heart. 

Poor  Miss  De  Ray !  A  woman  with  a  child's  heart,  she 
aspired  to  no  mission  higher  than  to  write  books  for  children. 
Yet  even  she  must  be  hunted  with  the  cry  "  literary,"  and  bo 
made  the  daily  butt  of  an  evil  .woman  and  a  conceited  man. 
As  I  recalled  in  how  many  nameless  yet  diabolical  ways  they 
managed  to  torment  her,  my  ire  grew  warm  towards  both,  and 
I  believe  I  could  have  seen  Mrs.  Wiggins  and  the  Rev.  Bunkum 
thrust  into  a  bag  and  then  into  the  Hudson,  after  the  good 
old  fashion,  provided  they  were  drawn  out  after  a  hearty 
ducking,  upon  the  promise  that,  in  the  future,  they  would 
attend  to  their  own  little  souls  and  leave  those  of  other 
people  alone. 

But  better  thoughts  came  to  me  as  I  sat  holding  that  sad  head. 
I  had  money  enough  left  to  pay  three  months'  board.  Miss  De 
Ray  should  have  enough  to  pay  for  one.  I  lifted  her  up, 
went  and  counted  the  gold,  came  and  slipped  it  softly  into  her 


A  Literary  Woman.  85 

hand.  It  gav.e  her  a  new  sensation,  the  touch  of  gold.  She' 
started,  looked  bewildered,  then  thrust  it  back. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  I  cannot  accept.  You  are  too  good  to  me," 
she  said. 

"  Miss  De  Ray,  you  must.  It  is  yours.  Go  and  pay  Mrs. 
Skinher." 

It  was  the  only  way,  by  a  high,  peremptory  tone,  to  compel 
her  to  ttike  it.  There  are  tones  of  voice  which  admit  of  no 
gainsaying.  You  must  flee  or  obey  them.  I  had  resolved  that 
Miss  De  Ray  should  have  the  money  ;  take  it  she  must,  take 
it  she  did. 

The  next  morning  Miss  De  Ray  did  not  come  down  to 
breakfast.  It  was  unusual,  for  the  poor  creature  seemed  to 
depend  upon  her  morning  cup  of  coffee.  Mrs.  Skinher,  who 
always  seemed  a  degree  more  attentive  to  her  boarders  after 
having  received  their  monthly  stipend  for  the  food  and 
shelter  which  she  gave  them,  told  Nick,  the  waiter,  to  carry 
Miss  De  Ray  her  breakfast.  Remembering  her  sensitive  pain 
when  even  the  servants  saw  the  inside  of  her  cheerless  apart 
ment,  I  offered  to  carry  the  cup  of  coffee  and  roll  myself. 
Knocking  at  her  door,  I  received  no  answer,  and  heard  no 
sound ;  none,  though  the  rap  was  repeated  twice,  thrice.  Start 
led  by  the  silence  within,  at  last  I  ventured  quietly  to  enter. 
Papers  here,  there,  everywhere,  were,  as  usual,  the  adornment 
of  the  little  den.  There  was  no  fire,  no  coal  visible  to  make 
one,  although  it  was  bitter  cold.  A  slight  elevation  in  the 
bed  told  that  a  human  form  was  there,  and  the  thought  came 
that  God  had  kindly  taken  her.  But  no ;  the  meed  of  suffering 
was  not  full.  The  last  pangs  of  disease,  the  sting  of  death,  the 
victory  of  the  grave,  were  to  be  felt  yet. 

As  I  drew  near,  I  saw  that  Miss  De  Ray  was  sleeping — a 
dull,  disturbed,  feverish  sleep  which  did  her  no  good.  Present 
ly  she  began  to  cough,  and  opening  her  eyes,  saw  me  standing 
beside  her  bed,  waiter  in  hand.  Her  eyes  lighted  up,  but  she 
looked  miserable,  sick,  and  wasted. 

"  I  coughed  all  night,  or  I  shouldn't  have  slept  so  late,"  she 
said. 

"  Drink  this  cup  of  coffee ;  it  will  do  you  good ;  then  lie  down 
till  a  fire  is  made  and  the  room  is  comfortable.  No  wonder 
you  cough." 

"  Well,  I  shan't  long.  I  think  that  my  coughing  is  almost 
over.  It  will  be  easy  and  pleasant  to  die  now  ;  God  has  given 
me  one  to  care  for  me  while  I  stay." 

I  looked  at  her  to  tell  her  that  she  was  not  going  to  die  at 


86  Victoire. 

present,  but  could  not,  for  I  saw  that  she  was,  that  the  story 
was  almost  told.  It  had  been  long  in  telling  this  story  of 
daily  dying ;  it  was  not  short  as  it  seemed,  only  I  had  not 
read  it  before.  The  thin,  pinched  face,  the  quick,  hollow 
cough,  I  had  seen  and  heard  ever  since  I  first  met  Miss  De  Ray. 
I  had  never  thought  till  very  lately  but  that  she  had  always 
had  them ;  to  me  they  had  been  a  part  of  Miss  De  Ray,  and 
not  that  distinct  power,  death,  whose  work,  commenced  in 
the  stifling  school-room,  achieved  its  final  triumph  in  the 
failure  of  the  "  A-B-C-darian."  While  hope  stirred  in  her, 
she  could  exist ;  when  that  departed,  she  had  no  vitality  left. 

Miss  De  Ray  did  not  rise  that  day.  For  many  previous 
ones  she  had  sat  wrapped  in  a  thin  shawl,  without  any  fire,  in 
fierce  mid-winter,  a  prey  to  the  most  terrible  forebodings  ;  the 
appalling  dread  of  a  most  sensitive  nature,  shrinking  from  the 
thought  of  utter  destitution,  sinking  down  aghast  at  the  ap 
proach  of  hunger,  cold,  wasting  sickness,  and  the  world's  cold 
charity.  I  stayed  with  her  till  I  saw  her  quietly  asleep  at 
night.  A  sympathizing  human  presence  seemed  to  magnetize 
her  into  a  peaceful  quiet.  Her  restless  eyes  grew  calm,  and 
followed  me  with  a  look  of  tranquil  love.  During  the  day, 
at  her  request,  I  gathered  up  the  masses  of  manuscript  scat 
tered  about  and  committed  them  to  the  flames  ;  all  but  a  few 
rhymes,  into  which  I  saw  was  written  her  inmost  life,  which 
I  asked  to  keep  for  her  sake.  She  was  deeply  touched. 

"  No  one  ever  cared  for  my  verses  before,"  she  said. 

I  fear  that  I  should  not,  if  I  had  not  cared  for  their  author. 

Most  of  the  manuscripts  which  were  burned  had  found 
their  way  into  print.  They  were  stories  of  miraculous  boys, 
and  of  impossible  girls,  who,  in  the  eyes  of  their  doting  fathers 
and  mothers,  managed  to  become  full-fledged  angels  here  be 
low  ;  while,  in  the  eyes  of  other  people,  they  were  tedious, 
premature  little  saints,  every  drop  of  childhood  crushed  out 
of  their  hearts.  A  monstrosity  upon  human  nature  is  the 
young  hot-house  ascetic  who  complacently  proclaims :  "  I'm 
going  to  heaven  when  I  die,  cause  I'm  a  good  boy,  and  give 
my  pennies  to  the  heathen ;  but  Johnny'll  go  to  hell  when  he 
dies,  cause  he's  bad,  and  spends  his  cents  for  candy." 

Innocent  Miss  De  Ray  thought  differently.  In  every  story 
she  had  a  marvel  of  a  child,  who  passed  through  the  agonies 
of  conviction  and  the  ecstasies  of  conversion  before  it  was 
old  enough  to  know  what  either  meant.  Also  a  wonder  of  a 
little  sinner  whose  mission  seemed  to  be  to  torment  the  little 
Christian.  Naughty  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,  who  read  her 


A  Literary  Woman.  87' 

stories  from  the  Sabbath-school  library,  who  grow  fatigued 
over  the  little  saint  and  excited  over  the  sinner,  and  think 
that  they  will  not  try  to  be  so  very  good  when  it  is  so  much 
more  fun  to  be  bad,  can  never  know  of  the  long,  sad  hours  of 
privation  and  pain  in  which  these  brain-children  of  a  guileless 
soul  were  born. 

Miss  De  Ray  never  went  down  to  the  table  >again.  Mrs. 
Wiggins  and  Mr.  Bunkum  never  troubled  her  any  more.  The 
boarders  missed  her,  and  wondered  what  had  become  of  Miss 
De  Ray.  I  told  them,  what  all  might  have  known  before,  that 
Miss  De  Ray  was  in  the  last  stages  of  consumption.  Mrs. 
Wiggins  said  that  people  were  never  seized  with  the  consump 
tion  so  suddenly;  that  evidently  it  was  only  one  of  Miss  De  Ray's 
crazy  freaks  to  attract  attention.  With  a  few  questions  of 
curiosity  and  ejaculations  of  wonder,  all  interest  ended.  None 
of  the  ladies  felt  equal  to  making  an  ascension  to  the  attic. 

The  hearts  of  a  few  would  have  expanded  with  tears  if  they 
had  realized  Miss  De  Ray's  condition  ;  but  they  could  not  real 
ize  it  without  seeing  her  and  her  room.  The  established  habit 
of  self-indulgence  seemed  to  render  it  impossible  that  they 
should  overcome  the  inertia  sufficiently  to  make  so  great  an 
effort  solely  for  the  sake  of  another.  To  that  forlorn  couch 
neither  friend  nor  kindred  came. 

But  nature  and  God  were  kind.  She  prayed  for  release, 
and  her  desire  was  granted.  As  she  drew  near  to  the  gate  of 
the  valley  of  shadows,  "  the  rod  and  staff"  were  stretched 
forth  for  her  support,  and  she  seemed  to  forget  the  dark  road 
of  the  past  in  the  exceeding  glory  of  the  path  which  stretched 
before  her.  The  vision  of  immortality  was  her  consolation ; 
and  if  it  were  only  a  vision,  who  would  not  rather  behold  it 
with  their  mortal  eyes  than  to  drop  hopelessly  from  this  sor 
did  earth,  an  atom  of  dust  into  the  bosom  of  nothing ! 

I  received  her  last  smile ;  her  eyes  were  turned  to  mine 
when  she  died.  The  meagre  yet  bitter  tragedy  of  her  life 
ended  with  a  smile.  When  I  saw  that  she  was  dying,  I  went 
to  Mrs.  Skinner's  room  to  inform  her  of  the  fact,  but  found 
that  she  was  absent.  Alone  I  watched  the  last  struggle, 
closed  the  dying  eyes,  folded  the  dead  hands  on  the  becalmed 
breast — never  more  to  heave  with  anxiety,  pain,  or  sorrow. 

All  was  over  when  I  heard  the  click  of  Mrs.  Skinner's  lock. 
Trembling  in  every  nerve  with  grief  and  excitement,  I  went 
out  and  encountered  her  in  the  hall,  just  as  she  was  descend 
ing  to  her  dinner-table  in  full  costume. 

"  Miss  De  Ray  is  dead,"  I  said,  and  burst  into  tears.    Alone 


88  Victoire. 

with  the  departed  I  had  not  shed  one,  but  the  effort  to  speak 
broke  the  tension  of  self-restraint. 

"  Dead  !  how  disagreeable !  I  do  hate  to  have  people  die  in 
my  house ;  it  is  so  inconvenient." 

As  Mrs.  Skinner  said  these  words,  she,  in  her  elegant  bro 
cade,  and  velvet  basque,  and  blonde  coiffure,  full  of  pink  roses, 
looked  as  if  she  would  never  be  guilty  of  so  uncomfortable 
an  act  as  dying. 

"  Has  she  left  anything  for  funeral  expenses  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Not  a  cent." 

"  How  provoking !  Now  I  shall  have  to  go  to  the  Poor 
Commissioner,  and  have  all  the  fuss  of  seeing  her  buried." 

"  Can't  we  raise  the  means  in  the  house  ?  If  each  lady  would 
contribute  a  small  sum,  it  could  be  done.  It  would  be  a  mark 
of  respect  to  one  who  deserved  more  than  she  received  when 
alive." 

"  Nonsense !  the  most  absurd  nonsense !  She  is  nothing  to 
any  one  in  this  house.  She  belongs  to  the  city  poor ;  it  is  the 
duty  of  the  city  to  bury  her." 

"  She  is  a  fellow  creature,"  I  ventured  to  say ;  "  a  lonely,  ne 
glected  fellow  creature,  who  had  no  one  to  love  her  while  she 
lived." 

"That  is  not  my  fault  nor  "yours,  and  it  would  not  alter  the 
fact  whether  we  paid  for  her  coffin  or  the  city ;  and  I  am  sure 
it  will  make  no  difference  to  her." 

"  It  would  make  some  difference  to  me  if  I  thought  that 
the  city  would  pay  for  my  coffin." 

"  Very  well,  you  may  buy  her  coffin  if  you  please ;  I  have 
other  uses  for  my  money ;"  and  the  brocade  rustled  with  a 
most  emphatic  sound.. 

She  began  to  descend ;  I  heard  the  stir  of  her  costly  robes 
growing  softer  and  softer  at  each  receding  flight  of  stairs,  till 
it  ceased  altogether ;  then  I  leaned  my  head  on  the  baluster 
and  wept.  The  attic  seemed  so  forsaken,  so  desolate ;  life 
seemed  so  dreadful,  so  colored  with  the  hue  of  Miss  De  Ray's 
history;  hearts  so  hard,  cold,  frozen  !  I  thought  of  the  career 
of  the  two  women,  Mrs.  Skinher  and  Miss  De  Ray ;  both 
nearly  of  an  age ;  both  left  dependent  upon  their  personal  ex 
ertion.  One  had  succeeded,  the  other  failed ;  one  was  rich,  the 
other  had  just  died  a  pauper.  The  world  sneered  at  Miss  De 
Ray,  patronized  and  courted  Mrs.  Skinher.  She  was  made  of 
most  common  material,  and  in  that  consisted  its  excellence. 
Contact  with  the  world  did  not  hurt,  .it  hardened  and  helped 
her.  She  had  practical  sense,  business  tact ;  she  could  make 


A  Literary  Woman.  89 

a  shrewd  bargain,  and  always  in  her  own  favor.  Neither 
above  nor  below  the  world's  every-day  level,  she  faced  it, 
combated  it,  walked  with  it,  and  succeeded. 

Miss  De  Ray's  fibre  was  too  fine  for  life's  common  uses.  Its 
rough  friction  made  her  sensitive  and  sore.  The  pressure  of 
need,  which  had  quickened  Mr!.  Skinher,  crushed,  killed  her. 
"  Poor  creature !"  the  compassionate  said,  "  she  has  no  faculty 
to  get  on  in  the  world." 

"  She  is  a  silly  old  maid,  who  has  taken  to  literature  for  the 
want  of  a  husband,"  said  the  unfeeling,  and  to  either  class  it 
was  all  the  same  whether  she  lived  or  died. 

My  sorrowful  thoughts  ended  in  one  question  :  How  can  I 
save  her  from  a  beggar's  funeral?  I  had  resolved  that  no 
passer-by  should  sing  for  her : 

*    "  Rattle  her  bones  over  the  stones, 

It's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns." 

Hopelessly  I  thought  of  my  own  almost  empty  purse.  Still 
I  could  give  half  of  its  contents ;  something  would  happen 
before  the  rest  was  gone,  but  that  would  not  be  enough  to 
defray  the  expenses  of  a  funeral.  Who  would  make  up  the 
deficiency  ?  I  thought  of  Mrs.  Forrest,  of  the  loving  light  in 
her  eye,  of  the  tender  smile  for  ever  playing  in  the  mobile 
curves  of  her  lovely  mouth,  of  the  poor  little  beggars  who 
were  the  daily  recipients  of  her  pennies,  of  the  gratuitous 
speech  which  Kate,  the  chambermaid,  had  uttered  only  the 
day  before,  that  "Missus  Forran  was  a  juwil  of 'a  lady,  an 
ilegant  lady  with  natur'  in  her  heart,  fur  indade  she  gave  Mrs. 
O'Flaherty  a  shillen  over,  whenever  she  paid  for  her  washin'." 

I  resolved  to  go  to  Mrs.  Forrest  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over. 
The  light,  and  warmth,  and  fragrance  of  the  dining  hall  would 
have  been  grateful,  but  I  felt  too  sick  and  dreary  to  go  near  it. 

I  went  back  to  the  sepulchral  room  and  ghastly  corpse. 
Miss  De  Ray  had  given  me  the  key  to  her  trunk  (the  only 
article  in  the  rootn  which  she  owned),  saying  that  I  would 
find  in  it  the  articles  necessary  for  her  interment.  On  opening 
it  I  found  that  it  contained  little  else.  A  few  old-fashioned, 
faded  garments  lay  on  the  top,  while  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trunk,  carefully  wrapped  in  a  napkin,  I  found  what  I  sought, 
a  muslin  cap  and  a  muslin  robe.  Kneeling  beside  the  bed,  I 
unfolded  it,  fold  by  fold,  till,  coming  to  the  last,  something 
fell  upon  the  floor"  which  looked  like  a  small  book.  Picking 
it  up,  I  discovered  it  to  be  a  miniature  case.  I  opened  it  and 
two  faces  looked  out  upon  mine.  Both  were  young,  and  one 


90  Victoire. 

was  lovely.  One  was  a  fine-looking  man,  with  an  upright, 
sensible,  tender  face ;  the  other  was  the  picture  of  a  girl,  with 
full,  soft,  fawn-like  eyes,  which  looked  steadfastly  into  the 
face  of  the  young  man,  their  opal  depths  overflowing  with 
love.  The  features  were  those  of  Miss  De  Kay.  Was  it 
possible?  Could  it  be  ?  The  Milken,  flowing  hair,  the  serene, 
satisfied  eye,  the  perfect  curve,  the  peachy  bloom  of  the 
cheek,  all  belonged  to  early  youth.  Had  Miss  De  Ray  ever 
been  young  ?  I  had  never  realized  it  before.  It  seemed  as 
if  she.  had  never  been.  I  looked  from  the  budding  face  of 
the  picture  to  the  dead  one  beside  me,  to  the  grey  hair,  the 
shrunken  features,  shrivelled  with  want  and  woe,  and  knew 
that  both  belonged  to  one  being;  the  stamp  of  the  individual 
soul  rested  upon  both.  What  shocked  me  so  was  only  the 
difference  between  youth  and  age,  between  hope  and  despair, 
between  life  and  death  ;  the  change  which,  in  lighter  or  darker 
phase,  comes  alike  at  last  to  each  human  creature.  There 
was  a  story  here,  one  which  Miss  De  Ray  did  not  tell,  one 
which  she  could  not  write  nor  sing,  yet  one  which  she  had  lived. 
She  meant  these  faces  to  be  buried  with  her.  I  kissed  them 
reverently  and  laid  the  miniature  beside  her,  with  the  cap 
and  shroud. 

I  waited  until  I  knew  that  the  gay  dinner  party  had  dis 
persed,  and  then  descended  to  the  parlor  of  Mrs.  Forrest, 
knocking  timidly  on  the  door,  for  I  had  come  to  ask  a  favor, 
to  me  a  new  errand.  Her  sweet  voice  responded,  and  I 
entered  to  find  her  lying  on  a  sofa  wheeled  near  the  grate, 
the  gas-light  flickering  on  her  pale,  lovely  face.  Evidently  she 
had  not  been  down  to  dinner,  for  she  still  wore  her  rich 
morning  robe  de  chambre,  while  dessert,  on  a  little  ebony 
stand  beside  her,  remained  untouched. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  oftener  to  see  me  ?  "  she  said,  ex 
tending  her  little  jewelled  hand.  "How  I  wish  you  would 
come  and  sit  evenings.'  George  is  so  often  detained  at  the 
ofiice,  and  I  get  so  lonesome.  Why  don't  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  I  answered,  "except  it  be  that  it  has 
become  so  completely  my  habit  to  sit  alone,  it  never  occurs 
to  me  to  visit.  I  only  came  now  to  ask  a  favor." 

"A  favor !  how  odd !  You  seem  like  one  of  those  people 
who  never  need  a  favor,  and  who  would  be  much  happier 
granting  than  asking  one.  You  know,  if  it  is  possible  for 
me,  it  will  delight  me  more  than  I  can  say." 

"  You  can  do  me  a  great  favor,  a  real  kindness,  Mrs.  For 
rest,  and  I  knew  that  you  would  be  glad  to  do  both.  Miss 


A  Literary  Woman.  91 

De  Ray  died  this  afternoon.  She  has  left  nothing  for  funeral 
expenses.  I  thought  that  you  would  consider  it  a  privilege 
to  make  up  the  deficiency,  which  I  cannot  at  present  fill. 
You  would  not  see  a  fellow  creature,  a  woman,  go  from  such 
a  house  as  this  to  be  buried  by  the  city,  would  you,  Mrs. 
Forrest?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  A  woman,  a  sister  has  suffered  and  died  in 
want  above  my  very  head,  while  I  have  been  listless  and  com 
plaining  in  all  my  luxury.  I  knew  that  Miss  De  Ray  was 
sick,  but  I  thought  that  she  was  not  very  sick.  I  meant  to 
have  gone  to  see  her  before  she  was ;  indeed,  I  thought  this 
very  morning  of  taking  her  a  little  wine,  but  became  interested 
in  anew  book  and  forgot  it.  Now  she  is  dead,  and  I  did 
nothing  to  comfort  her.  Oh,  dear,  how  careless  and  forgetful 
I  am  of  everybody  but  myself!  Poor  Miss  De  Ray,  how  I 
wish  I  had  been  kind  to  her.  I  am  so  indolent  even  my  good 
impulses  die,  because  I  don't  use  them  till  it  is  too  late  to 
make  them  a  blessing.  Nothing  that  I  can  do  now  will  com 
fort  her  poor,  aching  human  heart.  Oh,  Rose  Forrest,  why  will 
you  be  such  a  useless  creature !  " 

And  with  this  self-crimination,  she  rocked  herself  to  and 
fro  on  the  sofa  in  unaffected  distress. 

"  You  wrong  yourself.  Yours  is  the  sweetest  kind  of  use 
fulness,  for  you  bless  others  without  knowing  it.  Your  face 
does  that.  It  is  because  I  knew  that  you  are  kind  to  every 
body  that  I  came  to  you,"  I  said  to  her. 

"  I  have  not  been  kind  to  Miss  De  Ray.  I  could  not  have 
been  more  carelessly  cruel  than  to  let  her  die  without  giving 
her  one  sisterly  smile,  one  little  comfort.  I  wonder  why  it 
was  she  always  seemed  so  far  away  from  me.  I  did  not  know 
how  to  talk  to  her  when  I  saw  her  every  day.  It  was  my 
foolish  fear  that  I  could  not  please,  I  suppose.  If  I  were  not 
afraid  to  run  the  risk,  I  might  comfort  more  forlorn  hearts 
than  I  do.  The  funeral  will  be  no  trouble.  George  gave  me 
a  hundred  dollar  bill,  this  morning  to  buy  a  dress  pattern 
which  I  fancied  at  Stewart's.  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  it.  I 
have  more  than  I  can  wear  now,  and  I  am  tired  of  being  fitted 
and  fussed  over  by  a  dress-maker,  though  mine  is  one  of  the 
best  women  in  the  world,  and  I  don't  believe  that  George 
will  mind.  Will  a  hundred  dollars  be  enough  ?" 

Before  I  could  reply,  "  George"  entered  the  room  ;  a  young, 
handsome  metropolitan,  with  laughing  black  eyes,  and  unex 
ceptionable  moustache,  and  that  careless,  graceful  suavity  of 
manner  which  bespeaks  high  breeding  and  an  easy  fortune. 


92  Victoire. 

"  Why,  pet,"  he  said,  turning  from  giving  a  cordial  wel 
come  to  me,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  look  as  if  some 
affliction  had  befallen  you.  Had  some  one  else  secured  the 
dress  pattern  ?  or  did  Nell  forget  to  come  to  go  with  you  ? 
If  she  did,  it's  too  bad.  But  don't  cry,  and  I'll  pinch  an  hour 
out  of  to-morrow,  to  take  a  drive  with  you  myself." 

"  Will  you  ?"  and  her  face  shone  transfigured  with  delight. 
"  But,  George,  it  isn't  the  dress.  Nell  did  come,  but  some 
way  I  felt  as  if  I  didn't  want  it,  though  I  know  it  is  beautiful. 
I  am  tired  of  so  many  new  dresses.  They  take  all  my  time 
and  strength,  until  I  seem  to  live  for  nothing  but  to  attend  to 
my  costume." 

"  Well,  that  is  because  you  must  look  beautiful — you  like 
to  look  beautiful,  don't  you,  Rose  ?  I  never  saw  a  woman 
but  what  did." 

"  I  like  to  look  beautiful  to  you,  George." 

"  That  you  do,  and  always  succeed.  Then  you  have  no 
objection  to  looking  beautiful  to  Miss  Vernoid,  to  sister  Nell, 
to  cousin  Fred,  and  a  host  of  others,  have  you?  Come, 
confess,  Puss;  you  know  that  you  do  ?" 

"  Yes,  George,  I  know  that  I  like  to  look  pretty ;  but  I 
don't  care  about  it  now.  I  only  care  that  I  am  of  no  use  in 
the  world,  and  live  the  most  self-indulgent  life  possible." 

"  No  use !  Then  music  is  of  no  use,  nor  flowers.  You  are 
useful  in  the  manner  that  they  are.  You  were  born  to  be  beauti 
ful,  to  win  worship  and  love.  They  are  yours.  You  win 
without  knowing  it — you  bless,  when  you  think  the  least  of 
blessing.  Every  one  who  loves  you  ascends  to  a  higher 
level  in  order  to  meet  your  beautiful  soul.  Yet  you  fret  in 
your  pretty  way,  because  your  little  white  hands  are  not 
digging  in  some  vulgar  job  of  every-day  usefulness.  Don't 
you  know,  Rose,  that  the  people,  whom  you  hear  making 
such  a  great  fuss  about  doing  good,  are  never  the  most  useful  ? 
I  don't  care  a  fig  about  seeing  my  Rose  chief  lady  directress 
of  all  the  public  city  charities ;  to  ba  beautiful  and  good  as 
you  are  now  is  vastly  more  graceful.  I  declare  your  eyes 
are  full  of  tears  ;  Miss  Vernoid,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

There  was  a  just  perceivable  vibration  of  impatience  in  his 
tone  when  he  made  this  interrogation,  as  if  he  thought  that  I 
had  something  to  do  with  his  darling's  moist  eyes. 

"  Miss  Vernoid  came  in  to  tell  me  that  Miss  De  Ray  is 
dead.  She  died  this  afternoon,  George.  It  makes  me  sad  to 
think  of  her  cheerless  life,  of  her  lonely  death.  Only  think 
of  it,  George,  arn't  you  sorry  ?" 


A  Literary  Woman.  93 

"  Sorry  ?  I  am  very  sorry  that  she  had  a  bleak  time  of  it 
when  alive  ;  but  there  is  no  sense  in  my  feeling  sorry  that  her 
condition  is  bettered.  If  there  is  a  heaven,  and  I  suppose 
that  there  is,  why  should  I  feel  sorry  because  she  has  gone  to 
it?" 

"  But  if  it  were  me,  George,  who  died  all  alone,  and  with  no 
money  to  bury  me,  wouldn't  you  be  sorry  ?" 

"  Ybuf"  and  the  young  man's  eyes  grew  humid  as  he 
looked  into  that  lovely  face,  "  you  die  alone,  and  no  money 
to  bury  you — that  will  never  be  your  fate,  my  darling.  The 
mere  thought,  crazy  as  it  is,  gives  me  the  blues.  Why  do 
you  persist  in  talking  of  such  doleful  things  ?  You  are  not 
like  yourself,  Rose,  to-night.  You  are  far  too  susceptible  and 
sympathetic.  I  wish  that  such  forlorn  bodies  as  Miss  De  Ray 
were  never  allowed  to  cross  your  path.  Come,  cheer  up,  pet. 
She  is  beyond  the  need  of  your  sweet  gifts  now." 

"  Oh  no,  George ;  that  is  why  I  have  been  talking.  I  want 
the  hundred  dollars  which  you  gave  for  the  new  dress  to  buy 
her  a  good  coffin  and  for  funeral  expenses.  May  I  have  them 
George — may  I  ?" 

"  May  you  ?  The  money  is  not  mine.  Have  you  been  all 
this  while  getting  courage  to  ask  for  the  privilege  of  spending 
your  own  money  in  your  own  way  ?  Take  the  hundred 
dollars,  and  another  hundred,  too,  if  you  want  them ;  only 
don't  redden  your  beautiful  eyes.  I  want  to  look  at  them, 
while  I  am  eating  my  dinner." 

Nick  had  already  appeared  with  his  tray  of  smoking  viands, 
and  I  left  the  young  husband  to  enjoy  the  privilege,  of  which 
he  seemed  never  to  weary — that  of  gazing  at  the  rare  yet 
fragile  idol  which  absorbed  the  passionate  worship  of  his 
heart. 

In  the  morning  we  went  together  and  selected  a  tasteful 
coffin,  Mrs.  Forrest  giving  directions  to  the  undertaker  for  an 
ample  funeral.  How  gentle  was  her  voice,  how  serene  her 
face,  how  ennobled  her  whole  mien  !  She  was  a  loving  woman 
now ;  no  longer  the  weary,  listless  lady  of  fashion.  Gazing 
and  listening,  I  forgot  to  mourn  that  the  power  of  munifi 
cence  had  gone  from  me. 

When  it  was  whispered  through  the  house  that  Mrs. 
Forrest  was  interested  in  Miss  De  Ray'*  funeral,  said  funeral 
suddenly  became  the  fashion.  The  ladies  who,  before,  had 
been  entirely  unequal  to  the  task  of  ascending  the  attic  stairs, 
immediately  received  an  accession  of  strength,  which  bore 
them  to  that  upper  realm  apparently  without  effort. 


94 


_T. 

Victoire. 


"  Poor  thing !"  "  Unfortunate  creature  !"  and  "  If  we  had 
only  known  !"  were  ejaculations  poured  out  around  her  coffin 
without  stint.  Mrs.  Wiggins  came,  and,  lifting  her  eyes,  said 
with  sanctimonious  unction  :  "  God  is  exceedingly  obliging  to 
have  taken  her.  Not  that  she  was  in  my  way ;  not  in  the 
least.  I  am  never  annoyed  by  insignificant  people.  But  as  I 
said,  God  is  obliging,  because,  of  course,  such  a  very  queer 
person  could  be  no  very  great  addition  to  heaven.  What  an 
odious  room  !  If  I  had  known  just  how  it  looked,  I  should 
have  been  positive  that  she  was  crazy.  As  it  was,  you  kno\v 
I  had  my  suspicions.  Miss  Vernoid,  don't  you  observe  that 
the  corpse  is  offensive  ?" 

It  was  a  quiet  and  not  utterly  a  heartless  funeral.  Two 
women  shed  tears  of  sincere  sorrow  beside  the  open  grave  of 
Miss  De  Ray. 

Sweet  Rose  Forrest,  gentle,  beautiful  and  good,  here,  in 
epitome,  let  her  story  be  told. 

In  one  little  year,  from  amid  the  many  coffins  in  that  great 
sombre  warehouse,  another  was  selected — one  of  rarest  rose 
wood,  silver-chased,  satin-lined.  The  form  laid  in  its  softened 
shadow  was  not  a  faded  one,  but  that  of  a  young  and  most 
lovely  woman.  The  richly  embossed  plate  upon  its  cover 
said : — 

ROSE  FORREST, 
Aged  23. 

An  aristocratic  assembly  gathered  at  the  splendid  mansion 
which  the  young  wife  had  called  but  a  few  months  her 
home.  There  were  no  lack  of  mourners ;  and  not  the  least 
sincere  were  the  poor,  whose  wants  that  beloved  one  had 
relieved.  Not  much  was  it  like  the  funeral  which  left  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Skinher  one  year  before — the  scanty  funeral  of 
the  old  and  unloved  one.  Father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters, 
lover,  husband,  bowed  in  their  agony  of  grief  over  their  lost 
idol.  Why  did  she  die,  the  beautiful,  the  adored ! 

But  the  old  maid  and  the  crowned  wife  have  met  upon  one 
level  of  joy  ere  now. 


ADVERSITY. 

Take  not  this  cry  upon  your  lips,  lonely  toiler — "No  one 
cares  for  me."     Never,  until  we  see  soul  to  soul,  with  no  bar- 


Adversity.  95 

rier  of  mortal  clay  between,  shall  it  be  revealed  to  us  how  far 
the  sinuous  roots  of  human  relationship  extend,  or,  in  their 
marvellous  outgoing,  what  distant  soul  they  touch.  You  fall 
from  the  immaculate  altar,  to  which  you  were  lifted  by  love's 
blind  idolatry,  to  be  trampled  on  by  your  worshipper  as  com 
mon  dust.  Hearts  that  you  cling  to  in  love's  weak  depend 
ence,  weary  of  you ;  they  exhaust  all  that  your  nature  can 
give  them,  and  then  you  can  no  longer  satisfy  their  needs. 
The  individuality,  once  your  fascination,  their  satiety  now 
makes  a  festering  fault.  They,  are  tired  of  your  faded  face  ; 
they  chafe  under  your  oppressive  and  exacting  love.  The 
spell  by  which  you  won  them  is  dissolved ;  they  are  wide 
awake  now,  and  to  their  awakened  eyes  you  have  ceased  to 
be  lovely.  They  have  never  for  an  instant  accused  themselves 
of  infidelity  towards  you ;  they  would  start  in  horror  from  the 
accusation  of  treason.  There  is  an  infidelity  of  the  heart,  a 
treason  of  the  afiections,  which  can  never  be  made  answerable 
to  a  human  law.  The  world  will  never  accuse  them  of  infi 
delity  or  of  treason  ;  it  will  have  no  right  to  accuse.  The 
wily  heart  does  not  flaunt  its  falseness  into  the  face  of  the 
world ;  no,  it  only  taunts  in  secret,  with  torturing,  careless 
coldness,  the  sad  eyes  of  its  victim. 

Where  is  the  old,  ever-present,  ever  watchful,  ever-antici 
pating  tenderness  ?  Where  the  old  eagerness  at  returning, 
the  old  lingering  at  going  away  !  Where  the  rest,  the  bless 
edness,  the  bliss,  your  presence  once  gave  ?  Where  the  trance 
of  delight  in  which  your  loving  nothings,  your  childish  ca 
resses,  once  enfolded  them — where  ?  Now  your  tremulous 
love-words  fall  upon  abstracted  ears ;  your  shy,  faltering  ca 
resses  are  received  with  cold  passivity,  or  endured  with  ill- 
disguised  impatience,  which  even  politeness  cannot  hide  from 
your  keenly-quickened  vision,  you  are  robbed,  hopelessly 
robbed.  Alone,  shelterless,  bereft  in  spirit,  you  call  in  anguish 
for  what  you  have  lost.  Not  God  nor  angels  can  restore  it. 
You  can  never  be  avenged.  They  who  defraud  you,  can  they 
give  back  the  boundless  devotion,  the  worshipping  love  which 
you  lavished  ?  The  all-embracing  hope,  the  infinite  trust  in 
humanity,  now  hopelessly  shattered  ?  Can  they  restore  to 
you  the  ravished  bloom,  the  lost  virginity  of  your  morning 
soul?  Never.  The  love  with  which  you  have  so  long  en 
riched  one  you  cannot  quickly  transfer ;  you  cannot  find 
satisfaction  in  new  ties ;  you  cannot  worship  at  strange 
shrines. 

No !     If  it  is  your  saddest  of  fates  to  watch  the  growth  of 


96 


Victoire. 


indifference,  of  alienation  in  one  to  whom  you  have  given  all, 
life  has  nothing  left  for  you  but  its  grandest  lesson — resigna 
tion.  There  is  no  resurrection  morning  for  a  love,  dead  and 
buried.  You  will  find  work  enough  for  head  and  hands; 
later  affections,  untimely  November  flowers,  will  bud  amid 
the  ruins  in  your  breast ;  but  only  chilly  winter  blossoms  they 
will  remain  to  the  end.  The  spring-time  of  the  soul  once  los't 
never  returns. 

The  friend  that  we  believed  in  beyond  a  doubt,  the  one 
whom  we  set  apart  from  all  others,  saying:  "In  flood  and 
peril,  in  anguish,  in  disgrace,  I  would  trust  in  thee  and  rest 
in  thee  without  a  fear;"  when  the  sore  need  comes,  the  elect 
ed  friend  drops  off.  Where  the  anticipated  fealty  ?  where 
is  the  magnanimous  royalty  of  love,  which  was  to  have  been 
our  assurance,  our  support,  our  all,  in  the  hour  of  our  ex 
tremity  ?  Where  !  Not  in  the  soul  in  which  we  believed ; 
perhaps  not  in  the  nature  that  we  longed  most  to  lean  upon, 
— inot  there — and  it  is  well. 

Yet  Truth  and  Love  are  in  God's  world,  and  they  are  ours. 
The  universe  holds  no  power  that  can  defraud  us  of  our  in 
alienable  portion;  somewhere  in  the  ages  we  shall  find  it. 
Not  very  far  off,  perhaps  there  is  one  whom  we  scarcely 
notice  in  the  world's  crowd;  one  to  whom  we  give  few 
thoughts,  little  love,  if  love  at  all ;  that  one  would  die  for  us, 
aye,  more,  that  one  would  live  for  us,  a  life  of  utter  abnega 
tion  to  all  things,  save  the  love  which  it  pours  in  consecrated 
incense  at  our  feet.  If  life  leads  us  along  the  summer' path 
of  fortune,  this  soul  will  not  intrude  to  whisper  its  worship ; 
but  if  she  leaves  us  far  down  in  the  valley  of  sorrow,  then  we 
shall  know  that  we  have  a  friend  ;  and,  though  all  others  for 
sake,  we  may  say  :  "  There  is  one  who  cares  for  me." 

We  cannot  measure  the  cycle  of  a  single  soul ;  we  cannot 
tell  how  widely  embracing  is  that  soul's  atmosphere  of  attrac 
tion  ;  we  do  not  always  know  when  we  stand  inside  the  arc  of 
its  power,  irresistibly  drawn  by  its  occult  force.  There  are  rare 
moments  in  life  in  which  we  wake  to  find  ourselves  possessed 
with  a  mysterious  feeling  of  kinship  for  one  standing  without 
the  sphere  of  our  individual  life,  with  whom  we  are  never  to 
enter  into  any  intimate  personal  relations,  yet  the  vines  of  alli 
ance,  reaching  out  from  that  soul,  cling  closely  to  our  own. 
We  know  not  when,  we  know  not  why,  was  revealed  to  us  its 
interior  gloom  or  glory,  nor  why  our  own  eyes  are  shadowless 
lamps  by  which  this  soul  has  read  the  secrets  of  our  heart. 
Yet  a  little  thing,  a  look,  ^  smile,  a  word,  spoken,  written, 


Adversity.  97 

sung ;  an  intonation  of  voice,  an  unconscious  act,  may  have 
been  the  "  open  sesame,"  which  unlocked  to  each  the  pene 
tralia  of  the  other's  spirit.  We  never  shall  be  more  to  each 
other  than  we  are  now.  We  shall  exchange  scarcely  the 
coldest  courtesies  of  life,  never  the  seductive  cadences  of  love. 
We  shall  never  pull  a  pebble  out  of  the  great  wall  of  conven 
tionalism  in  order  to  look  with  longing  eyes  into  an  alluring 
elysium  beyond. 

Alas !  yet  the  tropical  heart  languishes  on  in  one  imperisha 
ble  summer,  under  the  icy  brain,  whose  wintry  will  can  be 
melted  never  by  the  sunny  efflux  of  a  love-begotten  spring. 
Over-leaning  the  frigid  fastness  of  the  mind,  into  each  summer 
soul  gazes  the  face  of  the  other,  lit  with  loving  eyes.  We  know 
not  how,  we  know  not  when,  but  there  was  a  moment  when 
invisible  hands  fastened  from  heart  to  heart,  across  the  great 
gulf  which  divides  us,  the  electric  cord  now  vibrant  with  such 
mystic  harmonies.  So  illusive  is  its  tissue,  we  cannot  sunder 
it,  so  tense  its  subtle  fibre,  we  cannot  lengthen  it ;  we  cannot 
draw  nearer,  we  cannot  go  further  apart. 

"  Each  is  naught  to  each,  shall  we  be  told  ; 
We  are  fellow-mortals,  and  naught  beside.' 

We  know  that  we  are  more.  Marvellous  intuitions  of  all 
each  soul  is  to  the  other  float  in  upon  the  consciousness. 
Reason,  with  harshest  gesture,  says :  "  You  lie,  begone !" 
The  imperative  intuition,  kindling  to  the  brilliance  of  a  blazing 
truth,  cuts  into  the  indestructible,  central  soul  the  calm  reply : 
"  I  know."  "I  know  that  there  are  moments  when  the  face 
of  each  flashes  unbidden  upon  the  other's  thought ;  moments 
when  the  cool,  soft  hand  of  one  would  lie  soothing  as  dew 
upon  the  burdened  and  burning  brow  of  the  other.  There 
are  hours  when  longings  for  the  absent  presence  pierce  the 
soul  as  the  wondrous  vision  of  unattainable  joy,  the  unattaina 
ble  presence  could  bring  shifts  across  its  horizon  of  tears,  the 
mocking  glory  of  the  '  Might  Have  Baen.'  " 

Through  the  wearing  routine  of  life's  common  care,  through 
the  fretting  friction  of  life's  daily  toil,  penetrates  to  your 
heart  the  lightning  knowledge  that  the  abysmal  solitude  of 
the  other's  soul  is  palpitant  with  loving  thoughts,  aching 
to  be  ensphered  in  words  of  love  for  you ;  that  its  soundless 
silenoes  thrill  with  inarticulate  tones,  which  yearn  to  break 
upon  your  breast  in  floods  of  sacred  tenderness,  but  doomed 
to  moan  on,  void  and  voiceless  fdr  ever  to  your  earthly  ear. 

5 


98 


Victoire. 


How  many  would  start  in  amazement  if  it  were  certainly 
revealed  to  them  who  loves  them  best.  How  often  we  would 
turn  in  cold  incredulity  if  told  into  whose  soul  the  impression 
of  our  own  had  sunk  the  deepest,  or  into  whose  life  our  own 
had  interwoven  itself  the  closest. 

Cease  to  sigh  "  No  one  cares  for  me,"  you  of  the  pining 
heart,  whose  tired  feet  seem  to  walk  so  wearily  in  the  dreary 
procession  of  the  "  unloved."  Like  the  gauds  of  fortune,  the 
prizes  of  friendship,  the  gifts  of  love  are  not  so  unequally  be 
stowed  as  they  sometimes  seem;  it  is  a  part  of  the  blindness 
of  our  mortal  condition  that  we  cannot  see  how  fairly  they 
are  distributed.  But  we  shall  see.  In  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
soul  will  meet  soul,  and  say  :  "  When  you  fainted  under  your 
mortal  burden,  when  you  wrestled  with  human  fear,  when 
you  suffered  and  wept,  and  there  were  few  to  comfort  and 
help  you  ;  when  your  days  were  long  and  lonesome,  dreary 
with  privation  and  care,  and  you  wept  because  there  was  so 
little  love  in  them,  I  was  cognizant  of  your  life  from  afar,  yet 
you  did  not  know  it ;  I  loved  you  with  all  the  fervor  of  my 
humanity,  yet  you  dreamed  not  of  it ;  I  would  have  enfolded 
and  cherished  you,  but  it  was  forbidden."  In  the  calm  liberty 
of  the  infinite,  when  our  enfranchised  souls  shall  have  lifted 
the  last  veil  from  the  face  of  mystery,  remember  then  we 
shall  know  why  here  we  are  often  so  near,  and  yet  so  far,  so 
much  and  yet  so  little,  to  each  other. 

"  No  one  cares  for  me,"  I  said,  sad  and  low,  to  myself,  as  I 
stood  all  alone  the  day  after  Miss  De  Ray's  funeral,  with  my 
face  leaning  against  the  window-pane,  gazing  listlessly  on  the 
world  below.  The  tense  winter  had  culminated  ;  its  mailed 
heart  had  broken  into  floods  of  wild,  desolating  rain,  pouring 
from  the  black  roofs  and  rusty  eaves,  splashing  in  mad  rivers 
along  the  muddy  channels  of  the  streets.  Grey  mountains  of 
salted  snow  still  lifted  their  unmelted  summits  in  the  way  of 
horses  and  vehicles,  to  the  misery  of  those  whom  they  carried. 
In  the  garden  courts,  patches  of  black  earth,  with  vagabond 
bits  of  dishes,  broken  kitchen  wares,  and  household  debris, 
which  careless  servants  had  swept  out  to  be  covered  by  the 
unsullied  ermine  of  winter,  now  protruded  stark  and  staring 
through  their  rent  and  melting  mantles.  The  world  looked 
dirty,  disgusting,  forlorn.  Men  looked  forlorn  under  the 
glazed  hats  and  drifting  umbrellas.  Women  looked  forlorn 
in  bedrabbled  skirts  and  soaked  gaiters,  flying  in  the  arms  of 
policemen  over  deluged  crossings,  cramming  themselves  into 
gorged  six  cent  coaches.  Little  children  looked  forlorn  with 


Adversity.  99 

their  weary,  paddling  feet — sad  little  street  sweepers,  with 
their  scanty  covering,  gaping  shoes,  old  men  and  women 
faces,  and  diabolic  brooms.  The  courts,  all  alike  in  a  row 
behind  the  houses,  how  dismal  they  looked  with  their  petit 
garden  beds,  from  whose  hearts  in  summer  loving  hands 
had  coaxed  a  few  vines  and  flowers  out  into  the  sickly,  un- 
genial  light.  A  few  blasted  blossoms  still  clung  to  their 
stalks,  shuddering  in  thetwinter  wind;  vines,  scathed  and 
still,  clung  to  their  mouldy  trellises. 

"  No  one  cares  for  me,"  again  I  murmured ;  and  as  I  spoke 
the  wind  cried  outside  of  the  window  like  a  homeless  child.  I 
shut  my  eyes.  I  saw  Les  Delices.  Its  blossoms  were  not 
dead,  its  fountains  were  not  frozen,  its  statues  were  not 
swathed  in  ice,  its  tidal  leaves  did  not  surge  around  Frede 
rick's  grave.  No.  Before  my  second  inmost  sight  it  stood 
in  the  trance  of  a  summer  noon.  The  mountain,  summits 
burned  in  smouldering  clouds  of  electric  crimson.  The  cas 
cade  fell  in  sheets  of  crystallized  sunshine — trailed  its  glory 
over  blistering  rocks,  dropping  at  last  on  the  cool  hearts  of 
purple  mosses  which  waited  its  coming  in  the  humid  gorges 
below.  Again  the  fruits  in  the  hands  of  Ceres  flushed  with 
mocking  mellowness.  More  than  ever  the  redolent  flowers 
blushed  above  the  mirrors  of  the  fountains.  Waters  trickled 
in  the  throats  of  marble  lilies — tinkled,  gurgled  in  myriads  of 
murmurous  jets. 

I  saw'  a  pomp  of  fruits,  a  blaze  of  blossoms ;  everywhere  life 
was  redundantly,  royally  riotous.  The  turret  flamed  scarlet 
through  the  effeminate  vines,  which  bound  it  with  their 
enervating  arms,  stifled  it  with  ravishing  yet  poisonous  per 
fume.  The  pines  spread  out  their  firmament  of  balm,  exuding 
balsam  from  every  odorous  pore.  The  fervid  winds  seemed 
to  faint,  cloyed  by  the  heavy  fragrance  which  oozed  from 
every  vein  in  nature.  The  grave  of  Frederick  was  embosomed 
in  bloom ;  flowers,  radiant  enough  to  have  blossomed  in  the 
gardens  of  the  blessed,  waved  their  censers  over  his  rest,  as  if 
the  elements  which  once  fed  the  tissues  of  that  beautiful  body 
could  only  be  transfigured  into  Nature's  most  perfect  forms. 

Silence  reigned.  No  stir  of  human  life  disturbed  the  trance 
of  the  dumb  midsummer  carnival.  The  doors  were  closed 
and  barred.  Defiant  creepers  had  covered  with  veils  of  im 
penetrable  emerald  the  shut  windows  through  which  once 
gazed  the  living  faces  of  a  dead  family ;  aggressive  weeds 
peered  with  brazen  eyes  through  the  interstices  of  the  veran 
dah,  and  flaunted  their  flaming  falchions  over  the  marble 


loo  Victoire. 

pavement  winch  once  re-echoed  with  the  fall  of  childhood's 
jubilant  feet.  Growths  of  fiery  green  pressed  in  close  de 
file  along  the  broad  avenue  which  led  to  the  house  ;  wing 
ing,  rippling,  in  rank  luxuriance,  they  filled  with  their  noxious 
life  the  sacred  path  once  so  carefully  tended ;  and  there 
was  no  tender  hand  to  thrust  aside  their  crowding  faces; 
no  indignant  foot  to  crush  all  their  vaunting  splendor  in  the 
dust. 

No  one  ?  Yes,  one.  Silent,  deserted,  desolate,  first  it 
stood  before  me,  steeped  in  the  torrid  glory  of  that  embla 
zoned  noon  ;  but  soon  I  saw  and  felt  the  presence  of  a  human 
soul.  I  saw,  yes  saw,  the  stranger,  whose  memory  had  filled 
my  life.  It  was  not  the  immobile,  the  impassive  face  upon  my 
canvas;  not  a  picture,  nor  a  ghost,  which  I  saw,  but  a  living 
presence,  in  all  the  plenitude  of  imperial  manhood,  with  pas 
sion,  power,  sorrow,  love  in  the  living  eyes,  which  passed  up 
the  deserted  walk  of  Les  Delices.  Once  before  he  had  entered 
that  sacred  precinct.  Now,  with  folded  arms,  he  gazed  before 
it,  reading  the  story  which  its  stillness  told.  I  saw  him  go  to 
the  grave  of  Frederick,  attracted  by  the  white  marble  cross 
at  its  head,  which  shone  dazzlingly  in  the  overflowing  sun 
light.  I  saw  him  gather  a  flower  from  that  grave,  a  flower 
itself  the  incarnation  of  colorless  flame.  I  saw  him  return  ; 
saw  him  stand  upon  the  spot  where  once  he  stood  before ; 
long  he  lingered  there.  I  saw  him  drink  from  the  urn,  still 
standing  moss-rimmed,  at  the  foot  of  the  cascade.  Lingering, 
lingering  I  saw  him  depart ;  saw  the  rippling  waves  of  green 
close  behind  his  soundless  feet  as  he  passed  slowly,  slowly 
down  the  deserted  path,  going,  going — whither  ? 

This  I  saw.  "  You  don't  believe  that  I  saw  it  ?"  Very 
well.  "Did  he  tear  his  hair  or  weep?"  Oh,  no  ;  he  did  no 
thing  so  absurd. 

I  opened  my  eyes.  There  was  the"  narrow  attic  window, 
the  grim,  grey  light,  the  dirty,  rainy  outside  world — my 
world. 

"  No  one  cares  for  me."  Again  I  moaned,  and  now  there 
was  an  eternity  of  yearning  in  the  cry. 

What  ailed  me  ?  A  few  weeks  before  I  could  have  uttered 
these  words  with  mocking  indifference.  I  could  have  said 
them,  shaking  my  head  with  a  laughing  defiance.  What  if 
no  one  did  care  for  me,  it  was  not  so  terrible  a  thing  to  live 
alone.  Besides,  I  never  was  alone.  Art,  nature,  were  my 
chosen,  inseparable  companions.  My  own  soul  seemed  exhaust- 
less  in  its  opulence.  I  was  drunken  with  the  exuberant  wine 


Adversity.  101 

of  my  own  overflowing  life.  I  fed  upon  the  delectable  juices 
of  my  own  bounteous  vitality,  and  was  satisfied. 

Now  the  sating  sweetness  in  my  veins  seemed  shrunken, 
dead  ;  the  tropical  wine  of  my  young  life  spent,  quaffed  to 
the  lees;  the  pure,  luminous  atmosphere  of  spirit  dense  with 
clouds,  heavy,  black. 

For  weeks  I  had  not  thought  of  myself — had  thought  of 
nothing  but  Miss  De  Ray.  The  object  of  my  care  taken,  the 
reaction  had  come.  Life  could  not  seem  to  me  quite  that 
which  it  had  been  before  I  knew  her.  It  was  my  first  contact 
with  a  hard,  actual  experience.  I  had  read  of  sad  fates,  of 
sorrowful,  desolate  lives  ;  now  I  had  both  seen  and  felt  how 
dreary  such  a  life  could  be.  Doubt,  fear,  had  come  unbidden, 
stretching  forth  despairing  hands  towards  my  future.  Would 
it  be  my  lot  to  live  such  a  life,  to  die  such  a  death  ? 

I  thought  of  Henri  Rochelle.  I  saw  his  calm,  cold  face, 
kind  in  its  very  coldness.  Would  it  not  have  been  better 
(certainly  it  would  have  been  wiser)  to  have  accepted  his 
offer  ?  Should  I  not  have  been  happier,  as  I  should  surely 
have  been  quieter,  to  have  been  now  the  matronly  mistress  of 
his  home^the  loved,  the  protected,  the  dependent  wife  ?  No  ; 
still  I  had  strength  enough  to  resist  him.  I  did  not  want 
his  home  nor  him.  At  least  he  should  not  know  of  the  ful 
filment  of  his  prophecy ;  he  should  not  have  the  triumph  to 
see  how  soon,  how  very  soon,  I  had  grown  tired,  had  fainted 
under  the  burden  of  my  own  life.  I  should  not  write  to  him. 
I  should  take  excellent  care  to  hide  my  future  from  him,  if  it 
was  to  be  unfortunate.  Besides,  even  he  had  ceased  to  care 
for  me.  The  envelope,  which  brought  the  last  remittance, 
brought  no  accompanying  token,  no  word  of  kind  remem 
brance,  no  anxious  inquiry  concerning  my  fate,  no  tender 
warning  regarding  my  future  ;  nothing  but  the  bare  blank 
money,  and  that  the  last.  / 

"  No  one  cares  for  me !"  The  last  cry  was  wilder,  more 
desolate  than  all.  Then  I  saw  that  face,  not  on  the  canvas, 
but  gazing  in  upon  the  eyes  of  my  soul.  At  that  moment 
Nannette  entered.  • 

"  Nannette,  tell  me  was  it  so  ?  or  did  we  dream  it  ?  Did 
a  stranger  come  to  us  when  Frederick  was  dying  ?  Did  he 
speak  so  kind  to  me  ?  Or  is  it  a  dream?  Did  we  dream  it, 
Naimette  ?"  I  asked,  gaspingly. 

"  Non,  non,  Mademoiselle !  How  often  must  Mademoiselle 
be  told.  If  only  Mademoiselle  had  said  that  she  saw  the 
strange  Monsieur  then  she  might  ask  with  propriety,  then 


1O2  Victoire. 

doubt  with  reason.  Nannette  very  well  knew  that  Mademoi 
selle  thought  that  she  saw  things  which  no  one  else  ever  saw. 
Mademoiselle  had  been  a  little  crazy  from  her  birth ;  had 
always  seen  visions  with  her  eyes  open.  Nannette  never 
dreamed  except  in  bed  ;  then  of  nothing  but  the  calamities 
which  would  certainly  befall  Mademoiselle,  if  she  did  not  get 
over  being  crazy.  But  this  strange  Monsieur,  Nannette  saw 
with  her  own  eyes,  spoke  to  him  with  her  own  voice ;  that 
settled  the  question.  Why  would  Mademoiselle  continue  to 
ask  ?" 

"  Where  do  you  think  that  he  came  from,  Nannette — from 
heaven  ?" 

"  Why  would  Mademoiselle  blaspheme  ?  From  heaven  ? 
Humph !  He  came  down  the  Rhone  valley  as  other  travellers 

•a,did'" 

"  Why  do  you  think  he  went  away  so  soon  ?    Frederick 

dead,  too  ?  " 

"  Would  Mademoiselle  never  stop  asking  silly  questions  ? 
How  was  Nannette  to  know  other  people's  business  ?  Why 
should  Monsieur  stop  with  strangers  ?  Very  likely  he  was  in 
haste  to  return  to  Paris." 

"  How  did  he  go,  Nannette  ?" 

"  Would  Mademoiselle  ever  cease  asking  that  question  ? 
She  was  growing  crazier  and  crazier,  Nannette  knew.  How 
many  hundred  times  must  she  be  told  that  Monsieur  went 
away  on  a  horse.  Was  there  more  than  three  ways  for  any 
man  to  go  ?  In  a  carriage,  on  a  horse's  back,  or  on  his 
own  feet?"  And  Nannette  began  to  groan  terribly  over 
Mademoiselle's  lack  of  common  sense. 

"There,  don't  take  on,  Nannette;  don't!  I  shall  surprise 
you  by  suddenly  growing  wise  some  day.  See  if  I  don't. 
Just  answer  one  more  question,  ma  chere  bonne,  and  I  won't 
annoy  you  any  more.  Did  he  look  like  this  picture — did  he, 
Nannette,  I  asked." 

"Plus  beau  I  plus  beau  I  Was  Mademoiselle  so  vain  as  to 
think  that  she  could  paint  a  face  as  handsome  as  Monsieur's  ? 
She  never  could-;  Mademoiselle  never  saw  such  eyes  as  Mon 
sieur  had  ;  never,  never  such  beaux  yeux" 

"  Well,  well,  Nannette  ;  after  all  it  is  a  dream  ! " 

The  days  crawled  away — yes,  they  crawled.  My  picture 
was  complete.  Love  could  suggest  no  alteration  ;  it  stood 
ready  to  be  sent  to  the  directors  of  the  Academy  of  Design 
for  their  annual  exhibition.  I  thought  it  strange  that  I  felt 
so  hopeless  about  it ;  I  who  had  been  so  believing  before.  I 


Adversity.  103 

thought  of  beginning  some  small  pictures  for  sale.  Broadway 
was  full  of  picture  stores,  where  I  might  offer  them,  yet  it 
was  almost  with  a  feeling  of  terror  that  I  contemplated  doing 
so.  Vainly  I  said:  "I  must  do  something."  Vainly  I  re 
called  to  my  thought  my  almost  penniless  condition  ;  vainly 
I  thought  of  Miss  De  Hay,  with  the  consciousness  that,  if  I 
should  sicken  and  die,  my  fate  would  be  no  better,  no  different. 
Fully  conscious  of  my  precarious  situation,  with  a  ghastly 
future  staring  me  in  the  face,  neither  the  sight  nor  conscious 
ness  moved  me  to  anything  like  adequate  action.  I  seemed 
apathetic,  dead.  The  old  energy,  the  gay  activity,  the  buoy 
ant  hope,  all  were  gone. 

Once  no  bereavement  could  quite  crush  my  elastic  life.  I 
shrank  not,  I  only  panted  for  life's  coming  contest.  Now  I 
felt  equal  to  no  endeavor ;  with  everything  to  be  done,  I  felt 
powerless  to  do  anything.  Once,  everything  had  seeded 
possible  to  the  patient  hand  and  resolute  heart ;  now,  I  lelt 
no  faith  in  myself;  none  scarcely  in  God.  I  felt  nothing  but 
a  gloomy  foreboding,  a  dread  of  life,  a  shrinking  from  the 
future,  a  willingness  to  die,  because  I  felt  an  inability  to  live. 

From  the  hour  in  which  I  watched  Miss  De  Ray  die,  my 
buoyant  and  exultant  health  seemed  broken.  Somewhat  of 
the  death  chill  of  that  moment  seemed  to  have  penetrated  my 
own  life.  The  long  tension  of  brain  and  heart  during  the 
lonely  watchings  beside  her  bed,  seemed  broken  at  last  in 
utter  prostration.  The  decay  of  her  body  seemed  to  have 
touched  my  own.  Ah  !  it  was  a  new  sensation,  when  first  I 
felt  the  virus  of  disease  polluting  the  joyous  current  of  my 
warm,  young  blood.  Vainly  I  struggled  to  arrest  its  course ; 
vainly  I  tried  to  shake  off  my  lethargy.  My  torpid,  aching 
limbs  grew  heavy  as  stone  ;  icy  chills  crept  through  my  veins; 
forked  pains  stabbed  my  brain,  and  punctured  every  nerve. 
One  morning  I  fainted.  I  came  back  to  consciousness  only 
to  feel  that  earth  had  shrunk  far  away  from  me ;  that  the 
time  when  my  life  was  a  delight,  when  I  had  felt  ambition 
and  hope,  belonged  to  another  existence. 

Could  it  be  possible  !  Was  I  the  same  being  who  had  felt 
life  thrill  and  throb  through  her  veins  in  ecstasy,  the  one  to 
whom  simple  existence  had  been  a  delicious  delirium  ?  Now 
I  could  not  move  ;  I  could  not  lift  my  hand  ;  I  «ould  scarcely 
see.  What  was  life,  that  which  we  call  life,  to  me  now? 
What  is  it  to  any  of  us,  when  we  feel  that  it  is  no  longer  ours. 
Alas !  how  soon  it  slips  away  from  us,  this  beautiful  world. 
The  eager  project,  the  absorbing  plan,  the  promise  of  success, 


104  Victoire. 

the  life  of  our  mortality,  its  pleasure,  its  pain,  its  sweet  daily 
nothings,  which  are  yet  so  much — yesterday  were  ours— but 
belong  not  to  the  abject  creature  of  to-day. 

"  Not  to  me,  not  to  me  ! "  I  murmured.  "  I  am  weary ;  I 
am  sick.  I  have  no  hope  to-day.  Life  is  nothing.  Nothing, 
nothing,  that  which  I  called  life.  Was  I  ever  one  of  earth's 
mad  crowd  ?  Did  I  ever  chase  such  phantoms  ?  With  wild 
avidity  did  I  struggle  for  an  earthly  prize  ?  It  looks  little 
now ;  how  little !  Yet  for  that  I  wrought,  for  that  suffered, 
believed,  lived ;  I  can  strive  no  longer.  Life  has  laid  me  down 
at  the  mouth  of  the  dark  river,  and  has  gone  away  and  left 
me  alone.  And  yet,  yet  I  would  live. '  Life,  come  back !  In 
the  cup  within  your  hand,  there  must  be  a  draught  for  me, 
something  sweet,  which  I  never  yet  have  tasted.  I  am  so 
weak  I  cannot  stretch  out  my  hand  for  it.  Oh,  pitying  angels, 
come  to  me !  Pour  into  my  wasted  veins  the  elixir  of  life ! 
Let  me  live  ! " 


THE    COMING   BACK. 

Let  me  live !  With  this  cry  upon  my  lips,  I  had  drifted 
out  helplessly,  hopelessly  into  that  chaos  of  disjointed  dreams 
which  men  call  madness.  Torn  by  the  fierce  terror  which 
had  confronted  me,  spent  by  the  agonized  struggle  through 
which  I  had  passed  with  spectral  foes,  who  had  glared 
upon  me  with  their  green,  chatoyant  eyes,  I  was  lashed  back 
upon  the  shore  of  life,  an  abject  creature,  a  worn  and  wasted 
creature.  Very  near  me  still  surged  the  waters  of  Death. 
Hungry  was  their  roar,  but  they  could  not  engulf  me  again, 
those  cold,  clammy  waves ;  not  now,  not  now,  for  I  was  up 
lifted  in  the  tender  arms  of  the  angel  of  life.  My  prayer  had 
been  answered,  the  words  had  been  spoken :  "  You  shall  live." 
My  obtuse  sense  heard  not  the  whisper  which  came  after  : 
"  Live  !  In  the  fulfilment  of  your  prayer,  accept  the  promise 
of  your  keenest  agony." 

I  opened  my  eyes  one  morning — I  knew  that  it  was  morn 
ing,  because  the  pulses  of  the  eastern  sunshine  were  throbbing 
through  my  Eastern  window,  dilating  in  ripples  of  gold  over 
the  pictured  face  of  my  mother  which  hung  opposite.  Through 
its  baptism  of  flame,  it  looked  down  upon  me,  the  holy  eyes 
filled  with  the  same  anxious,  foreboding  tenderness  with 
which  they  used  to  gaze  upon  me  iu  my  wayward  childhood. 


The  Coming  Back. 

All  the  mother's  apprehensive  soul  seemed  to  have  stolen 
anew  into  the  pictured  eyes.  "  Mother !  Ma  m&re !  Ma 
mdre  /"  With  this  cry  faltering  on  my  lips,  I  came  back  to 
life.  What  ailed  me  ?  Had  I  just  awakened  from  the  dreams 
of  a  single  night  ?  Why  did  a  great  gulf  seem  to  divide  me 
from  my  past  existence?  Why  did  it 'seem  so  dim,  so  far 
away,  so  illusive,  like  the  panorama  of  landscapes  and  faces 
which  troop  through  our  night-time  visions  ? 

What  ailed  my  arms  ?  Wasted  and  lifeless  they  lay  upon 
the  coverlet,  their  veins  shrunken  and  dry  as  if  fever  had 
sucked  the  last  drop  of  life  from  their  courses.  When  I  re 
membered  them  last,  not  a  line  had  fallen  from  their  rounded 
mouldings,  from  their  flexile,  warm-tinted  curves ;  true,  then 
I  folded  them  across  my  breast  in  my  first  utter  loneliness, 
but  the  sickness  which  had  entered  the  heart  had  not  then  in 
vaded  their  young  physical  fulness  of  beauty.  Then  my 
hands,  too,  so  delicately  wrought ;  dimples  slept  in  their  un- 
wasted  surface ;  violet  veins,  fibrous  wine-jets  traced  their 
whiteness ;  their  blushing,  tapering  nails  were  rose  petals 
dropped  on  snow ;  but  now,  now,  they  lay  before  me,  old, 
wasted.  Joints  rose  hard  and  stark  where  dimples  had  nestled. 
The  veins  had  spread  into  one  stagnant  purple  pool,  suffusing 
even  the  wiry,  corrugated  muscles,  their  dark  currents  stain 
ing  the  shrivelled  fingers  and  curdling  under  the  livid  nails 
in  blackened  clots. 

Slowly,  lifelessly,  I  lifted  that  smitten  hand  to  my  head. 
Where  now  were  the  great  drifts  of  hair  ?  where  the  sweep 
ing  masses  of  defiant  curls,  which  always  would  curl,  and  in 
their  own  way,  in  spite  even  of  their  wilful  owner  ?  Of  bur 
nished  brown,  in  the  sun  flashing  out  the  sheen  of  gold,  was 
this  hair  of  mine.  How  I  had  loved  to  fill  its  clinging  rings 
with  faint,  bewildering  perfumes,  odors  pressed  from  the  hearts 
of  roses ;  from  veins  of  satingly  sweet  water-lilies,  with  the 
tears  of  violets  and  heliotropes,  and  then  shake  its  loosened 
meshes  about  my  face,  until  half  intoxicated  with  its  fra 
grance.  With  earth's  own  ravishing  juices  I  had  fed  its 
opulent  growth,  cherished  it  with  a  woman's  sacred  pride,  this 
woman's  "  glory  "  of  sumptuous  hair.  But  it  was  gone — I 
was  discrowned.  A  few  obstinate  little  rings  clung  closely  to 
my  damp  forehead,  but  the  tide  of  sweeping  silken  splendor 
had  been  swept  utterly  off  by  some  ruthless  power. 

Slowly  my  hand  passed  over  my  face ;  anxiously,  painfully 
I  questioned  its  identity.  The  eyes  seemed  to  have  settled 
back  into  cavernous  vaults ;  the  rounded  outline  of  the  cheek 

5* 


106  Victoire. 

had  sunken,  the  mobile  lij)s  had  become  tense,  as  if  tightened 
by  pain.  I  looked  languidly  around  my  room  ;  when  I  closed 
my  eyes  to  sleep,  it  did  not  look  like  that.  Now  the  pictures 
were  dusty,  as  if  no  loving  hand  had  touched  them  for  many 
a  day ;  my  pet  books  and  trinkets  were  scattered  about  in 
sad  confusion  ;  I  could  never  have  sat  for  a  moment  in  a  room 
so  disorderly.  What  demon  had  been  making  havoc  in  my 
sanctuary  ?  What  made  it  so  suggestive  of  a  sick  chamber  ? 
My  centre  table  was  filled  with  vials  and  glasses,  all  mixed 
with  my  pretty  treasures,  and  the  atmosphere  was  stifling 
with  the  vapor  of  noxious  draughts,  and  the  exhalations  of 
deadly  disease. 

I  heard  a  sound,  and,  looking,  there  stood  Kate,  the  cham 
ber-maid,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  leaning  upon  her  broom, 
gazing  intently  upon  me.  She  had  been  looking  at  me  all 
the  while',  yet  I  had  not  seen  her  before. 

"  Kate,  what's  the  matter  ?" 

I  did  not  know  my  own  voice ;  it  sounded  broken  and 
husky,  as  if  all  worn  out. 

"  Mathar,  indade  !  There's  enough  the  matter  wid  ye,  I'm 
thinkin'.  Mrs.  Wiggins  will  be  mad  enough  to  murdther  me 
for  not  attindin'  to  her  rooms  afore.  But  if  I  lost  me  piece  I 
vow'd  I  wudn't  stir  a  peg  from  this  spot,  till  I  knovv'd.  I 
know'd  in  that  slape,  ye'd  come,  or  go  for  good,  and  it  sames 
ye've  come." 

"  What  ails  me,  Kate  ?" 

"  A  quare  question.  Miss.  A  brain  faver  has  had  howld  of 
ye  this  many  a  day.  Ye  has  been  as  crazy  as  a  Bidlum  luna- 
tez,  and  yet  ye're  afthur  knowin'  nothin'  about  it  ?  No  one 
could  do  nothin'  wid  ye  but  me,  and  indade  it  was  as  much  as 
iver  I  could  do  to  hold  ye.  Ye  had  a  mighty  .proud  way  of 
shakin'  yoursel'.  You  said  ye  wouldn't  be  held,  and  ye 
wouldn't.  And  'twas  well  me  arms  were  a  bit  stronger  nor 
yourn." 

"  Why  did  you  hold  me,  Kate  ?" 

"  Hold  ye  ?  It's  pity  ye're  not  afthur  knowin'.  Didn't  I 
hold  you  to  keep  you  from  flyin'  out  of  the  windy,  or  some- 
thin'  as  bad,  'cause  ye  was  a  perfect  wild  cat,  that's  why.  You 
would  go,  an'  you  would  go  to  Lice,  to  Lice,  but  whither  it 
was  varmin  or  a  piece,  ye  meant,  faith,  I  cudn't  tell.  You 
kept  callin',  and  callin'  some  Fredrik,  and  some  one  ye  called 
Bu-Buty,  or  some  such  outlandish  neme.  And  you  talked  of 
some  one  who  kem  only  once.  '  Why  didn't  he  come  agin  ?' 
ye  kept  askin'.  Then  ye  had  hapes  and  hapes  of  strange  talk 


The  Coming  Back.  107 

about  your  faytlier  an'  murther,  and  about  yoursel'  starvin',  and 
dyin',  'cause  your  money  was  all  gone.  Sometimes  laughin' 
frightful-like,  and  sayin'  you  didn't  care  ;  and  sometimes  cryin' 
and  wringin'  your  hands  till  it  made  me  heart  ache  to  hear 
ye ;  sometimes  shriekin'  till  I  declare  it  made  the  hair  on  me 
head  shiver." 

"  Oh,  Kate !  why  didn't  you  stop  me  ?" 

"  Stop  ye  !  I  would  like  to  have  seen  the  one  that  could 
a  stopped  ye  !  You  was  the  craziest  crathur  I  ever  seen  in 
all  me  life.  Didn't  I  tell  you  no  one  could  howld  ye  but  rae- 
sel'  ?  There  allus  was  a  flash  in  your  eye.  I  seed  it  long 
enough  ago — that  it  made  no  manner  o'  use  to  say  no  if  you 
said  yes,  nor  yes  if  you  said  no.  Well,  that  flash  turned  into 
a  stidy,  jnirnin'  coal,  when  you  were  a  lunatez.  In  my  notion, 
very  quare  eyes  ye  have,  Miss.  They  have  all  sorts  o'  look  in 
thim.  I  seen  them  look  soft  as  a  baby's,  and  they  quite  tuk 
the  heart  out  of  me." 

"Never  mind  my  eyes,  Kate.  I  care  nothing  about  them, 
nor  their  looks.  Where  is  Nannette  ?  Where  is  Nannette, 
Kate  ?  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  I  know  ;  I  shall  pay 
you  for  it  when  I  get  well ;  but  I  want  my  bonne— will  you 
call  her,  Kate  ?" 

"  Your  what  f  Miss.  I  don't  understand  your  haythenish 
nemes." 

"  I  want  my  nurse,  ISTannette.  She  has  taken  care  of  me 
ever  since  I  was  born.  Didn't  she  nurse  me  when  I  was  ill, 
Kate?" 

"  She  gave  you  into  my  keepin',  Miss.  Do  you  think  she 
had  nothin'  to  do  but  to  stay  wid  ye  all  the  blessed  time, 
when  she  had  pastry  to  make  for  all  the  house?" 

"Kate,  who  cut  off  my  hair?  Who  dared  to  cut  off  my 
hair?  Did  you?" 

My  head  felt  strangely  light,  bereft  of  its  beautiful  burden. 
My  debilitated  mind  toiled  slowly  from  thought  to  thought, 
entirely  absorbed  for  the  moment  by  each  one  which  pos 
sessed  it. 

"  Me  /"  exclaimed  Kate,  indignantly.  "  Me !  as  if  I  hadn't 
hair  enough  of  me  own  on  me  head  without  stealin'  other 
people's."  And  Kate  shook  a  ferocious  mop  of  knotted  hair, 
rankly  luxuriant,  yet  not  unbecomingly  folded  around  the 
broad  Irish  brow. 

"  Who  dared  to  cut  off  yer  hair  ?  Who,  indade,  but  the 
leedy  of  the  house  hersel'.  She  said  there  was  no  sort  of  use 
to  have  such  a  mess  of  curls  tumblin'  and  tossin'  on  a  crazy 


io8  Victoire. 

head  ;  that  you'd  never  git  over  yer  fever  till  they  were  all 
cut  off.  So  she  cut  them  off  vvid  her  own  hands  and  her  own 
scissors." 

"  She  did  f    What  did  she  do  with  them,  Kate  ?" 

"  Do  wid  thim !  Why  she  tuk  thim  off,  to  be  sure.  Ye 
don't  suppose  ye'r  the  only  one  in  the  house  that  would  like 
to  wear  such  currls,  do  ye?  Oh,  she's  an  ould  sarpent!" 

"  Kate,  will  you  ring  for  Nannette  ?  I  must  see  Nannette. 
She  never  left  me  so  before." 

"  Well,  she  guv  ye  into  my  keepin'.  *  Take  care  of  me 
mam — me  mam' — somethin'.'  I've  no  power  to  spake  your 
haythenish  furren  words.  But  I  understood  this  '  take  care 
of  her.'" 

A  solemn,  almost  a  tender  look  now  pervaded  Kate's  face ; 
then,  for  the  first  time,  the  thought  slowly  dawned  upon  me 
that  something  might  ail  Nannette. 

"  Is  Nannette  sick  ?  Tell  me,  Kate,  if  anything  has  befal 
len  her  ?  She  is  all  that  I  have  left  in  the  world.  If  she  should 
leave  me  I  should  be  utterly  alone." 

"  Don't,  don't,  in  the  name  of  the  Vargin,  don't  spake  to 
me  in  that  voice ;  it  goes  into  my  sowl  like  a  little  child's  cry- 
in',  that  has  no  murther.  Well,  you  are  not  goin'  to  die  now, 
that's  shure.  I  watched  you  all  through  the  turniu'  slape, 
and  while  I  watched,  I  said  me  prayers  as  fast  as  iver  I  could  : 
'  Hail  Mary,  full  of  Grace,'  and  the  '  Prayer  for  the  DyinV 
The  saints  forgive  me,  that  I  said  thim  wid  me  eyes  open. 
I  was  lookhr  to  see  whather  ye  was  comin'  or  goin',  and  now 
ye've  come,  I  know  ye  won't  go.  Ye  couldn't  die  now  if  ye 
tried.  So  it  won't  kill  ye,  if  I  till  ye  the  whole  truth." 

"  What  truth,  Kate  ?" 

"  Well,  well,  can't  ye  be  afthur  waitin'  one  blessed  minut  ?" 
And  Kate  took  a  long  breath  and  seemed  with  difficulty  to 
swallow  something  in  her  throat,  as  if,  though  there  was  no 
danger  of  its  killing  me,  the  "  whole  truth  "  was  not  very  easy 
to  be  told. 

"  Faith  !  I  dun  know  what's  ailin'  me  that  I'm  makin'  such 
a  fuss  about  spakin'  a  few  wurrds.  Now  ye've  come,  ye  can't 
go,  that's  sure.  Only  I've  no  wish  to  be  botherin'  ye — that's 
the  truth  as  much  as  the  orther.  (Here  Kate  swallowed  ano 
ther  lump  in  her  throat.) 

"  Well,  from  the  hour  ye  tuk  crazy,  she  was  awful  gloomy- 
like.  She  wouldn't  say  nothin'  to  nobody  but  me.  To  me  she 
talked  ahape.  Sure  she  went  on  making  pastry  jist  the  same, 
and  these  quare  soups  with  everything  iu  thim,  smellin'  so  of 


The  Coming  Back.  109 

garlic,  I  think  I'm  in  me  own  counthrie,  when  I  stand  over  the 
pot.  She  cooked  the  same  French  fooleries,  but  as  I  was  say- 
in',  she  talked  hapesto  me.  She  sez,  '  Kate,'  sez  she,  'if  any 
thing  happens  to  me,  you  take  care  of  me  mam — mam', 
sumethin'.  There  !  I  can't  say  your  haythenish  Frinch  nemes. 
Why  don't  you  have  sinsible  nemes,  like  other  folks  ?" 

"  Never  mind  the  name,  Kate ;  she  meant  me.'' 

"  Mint  you !  Who  ilse  could  she  mane  ?  Wasn't  her  life 
bound  up  in  ye  ?  But  oh,  she  tuk  on  terrible,  cryin'  and 
gronin'  about  her  mam — her  mam,  sumethin'.  Her  mam, 
mam,  sumethin',  had  been  creezy  ever  since  she  was  borned 
into  the  wurld.  She  was  allus  seein'  strange  sights,  wid  her 
eyes  wide  open ;  allus  doin'  quare  things,  and  the  quarest, 
creeziest  thing  she  ever  done  was  to  come  to  this  miserable 
counthrie ;  and  indade  it's  the  creeziest  thing  that  I  ever  done 
mesel'.  Sure  wasn't  I  a  hape  better  off  at  home !  Wasn't 
me  fayther  a  will-to-do  farmer,  that  niver  sent  his  gells  out  to 
sarvice !  But  I  heard  how  in  this  counthrie  the  dollars  sprout 
ed  in  the  streets  as  thick  as  potaties,  and  the  fool  that  I  was, 
I  kem  to  see  and  make  me  fortin'." 

"  Yes,  Kate,  you'll  tell  me  all  about  it  some  time,  please ; 
but  not  now.  Where's  Nannette  ?" 

"  Can't  ye  be  patient  ?  As  if  I  wasn't  tellin',  as  fast  as  me 
tongue  will  let  me,  the  truth,  and  the  whole  truth.  Though 
the  Lord  knows,  mesel'  wud  be  the  last  'un  to  tell  it,  if  I 
hadn't  watched  ye  through  the  turnin'  slape,  and  seen  ye 
come ;  so  I  know  ye  won't  go,  if  I  do  tell  the  truth,  and  the 
whole  truth.'3 

"  Tell  me  quick,  quick,  'Kate  ?  What  is  the  truth,  and  the 
whole  truth  ?  Oh,  do  call  Kannette." 

"  Wasn't  I  tellin'  that  she  said  her  mam — mam,  you,  she 
mint,  was  creezy  iver  since  ye  were  borrn,  only  in  no  frightful 
way,  till  ye  tuk  the  faver.  Well,  well,  she  came  up  one  day, 
mornin'  it  was,  and  sat  by  yer  bid.  She  rubbit  yer  hands  and 
rubbit  yer  hair  (the  sarpint  hadn't  tiched  it  thin),  she  callit 
you  hapes  of  nemes  in  her  murderin'  Frinch,  but  low  like  so  I 
knovv'd  that  they  mint  somethin'  swate.  The  more  she  talked 
the  wilder  you  tuk  on,  callin'  for  Lice,  for  Lice,  for  Fredrik  and 
for  Buty,  mixin'  Frinch  and  Inglish  in  a  haythenish  hape.  At 
last  you  grow'd  so  bad  I  had  to  come  and  hold  yer  hands, 
and  ye  were  so  mighty  strong  'twas  as  much  as  iver  I  could 
do  to  hold  thim.  Then  she  groaned  and  cried,  and  said  agin 
her  mam,  mam  somethin',  allers  was  creezy,  but  niver  so  bad 
afore.  Who  would  care  for  her  mam  when  she  was  gone  ? 


i  io  Victoirc. 

Who  would  miss  her  ?  Who  would  treat  her  jist  as  well  as 
if  she  wasn't  creezy  ?  Oh,  if  God  would  only  take  her  main, 
mam  smethin' !  Kate,  K:ite,  she  cried,  take  care  of  my  — . 
Just  thin  I  heard  a  quare  sound.  I  looked,  an'  she  was  fallin'. 
I  know'd  she  had  tuk  a  fit  sich  as  old  folks  has.  A  fine  time 
I  was  havin'  betwune  ye  both.  I  couldn't  lave  ye  to  tind  to 
her,  yet  I  run  an'  lifted  her  in  my  arms.  I  thought  that  the 
breath  was  lavin'  her  so  I  call't  loud  for  Mrs.  Skinur.  She 
came  quick  enough,  and  skeerd  too,  the  sarpint.  When  she 
saw  all  the  thruble,  what  do  ye  think  she  said  ?  Why  she 
said  ye  must  be  clared  out  of  the  house  ;  that  thur  had  bin  no 
luck  in  the  attic  since  ye  kem  into  it.  Hadn't  the  tacher  gone  ? 
wasn't  the  writer  dead  ?  and  now  ye  was  turnin'  it  into  a  Bid- 
lum  ;  an'  worse  than  all,  here  was  her  cook  in  a  fit.  Who'd 
make  the  pastry  for  dinner?  If  she  belaved  in  a  divil  she 
would  sartinly  say  ye  had  brought  him  into  her  attic.  Nick 
and  Bridget  Kenyon  tuk  your  nus  away  in  their  arms  an'  laid 
her  on  her  bed.  The  docthor  was  call't,  but  he  said  it  was  no 
fit,  'twas  'gestion  of  the  heart ;  that  thruble  broke  it ;  so  Miss 
'twas  graife  for  ye  that  kilt  her,  for  she  didn't  brathe  agin. 
No,  she  never  brathed  agin.  Now  I've  told  ye  the  truth  and 
the  whole  truth.  I  know'd  you  could  bar  it  and  not  go. 
I  know'd  by  the  look  in  yer  eye  when  ye  kem  out  of  the 
turnin'  slape,  that  ye'd  come  back  to  the  wurld  to  stay,  and  to 
be  a  sinsible  person  in  it." 

"  Oh,  Kate !  .Kate !  Kate !" 

"  Ye  may  well  cry  Kate.  If  it  hadn't  bin  for  Kate  ye'd  bin 
dead  afore  now.  Isn't  it  me  that's  taken  care  of  ye  this  many 
a  day  ?  Whin  I  was  runnin'  from  room  to  room  altindin'  to 
the  ladies'  babyish  wants,  wouldn't  I  make  thim  wait  while  I 
run  up  to  see  how  ye  were  gettin'  on.  Ye  was  quiet  as  a 
dead  lam'  part  of  the  time,  when  the  docthor  had  given  ye 
morphus  or  white  stuff  wid  some  sich  name,  for  I  wint  for  the 
docthor  meseP  and  told  him  if  I  guv  him  my  own  wages  he 
should  be  paid.  No,  indade !  there  was  no  one  but  Kate  to 
tind  to  ye,  poor  young  crathur.  Blessed  Missus  Forrau,  the 
jawel,  she  kem  as  long  as  she  could.  Every  blessed  day  she 
kem  an'  mixed  drinks  for  yer  hot  throat  wid  her  own  white 
little  hands.  I  seed  her  kiss  your  forhead,  too,  many  and  many 
a  lime,  but  at  last  her  husband  took  her  away  to  a  fine  great 
house  he  had  bought.  He  said  his  wife  was  far  too  deliket  to 
l>e  thrubled  with  such  a  sight.  Kosevsays  he,  ye  musn't  go 
to  that  room  no  more.  I'll  hire  some  'un  to  take  care  of  Miss 
Ver — (I  can't  say  yer  outlandish  ueine.)  Mr.  Forran,  sus  I, 


The  Coming  Back.  1 1 1 

ye  needn't  hire  no  mis.  Her  own  nus  guv  her  to  my  keepin'. 
I'll  take  care  on  her  if  I  lose  me  piece.  'Deed  I  knew  while  I 
kept  doin'  the  work  of  two  common  gels  the  sarpent  would 
be  in  no  hurry  to  sent  me  off.  She  didn't  darken  yer  door 
but  once ;  not  she.  Then  she  brought  her  scissors  an'  didn't 
she  shear  off  them  currls !  You'd  better  leave  that  hair  on  the 
head  where  it  belongs,  I  said.  Kate,  sez  she,  attind  to  yer  own 
consarns;  who  iver  got  well  of  a  faver  with  such  a  hape  of 
hair  on  their  head  ?  'Fore  she  went  off  she  looked  around 
an'  samed  mighty  taken  with  the  picters.  The  big  picter,  she 
said,  should  hang  in  her  parlor ;  that  was  jest  the  size  she  want 
ed.  When  the  frightful  madness  was  gone  like,  and  ye  lay 
like  one  dead  afore  ye  went  into  the  turniu'  slape,  who  should 
come  in  but  Miss  Wiggins.  She  had  come  to  see  how  ye  were 
lukin',  she  said.  She  had  hearn  yer  hair  was  all  cut  off,  and  sjie 
knew  ye'd  look  like  a  fright  without  it.  There  she  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  starin',  her  snake  eyes  lookin'  so  divil- 
ish  glad  I  wanted  more  nor  iver  I  wanted  to  say  me  prayers 
to  knock  her  down.  There  was  a  wonderful  contint  came  in 
her  eyes  as  she  stood  lookin'.  You  wouldn't  parade  that  hair 
no  more  that  was  sartan,  she  said.  Ye'd  niver  look  fit  to  be 
seen  again  was  shure.  Ye  wouldn't  insult  her  at  the  table  no 
more  with  yer  scornful  eyes,  sayin'  nothin',  but  lookin'  as  if  you 
owned  the  universe.  Now,  Miss,  I've  towld  ye  the  truth, 
an'  the  whole  truth." 

"Oh,  Kate!  ring  for  Nannette.  Nannette  can't  be  dead; 
though  it  seems  long,  very  long,  since  I  saw  her  last,  my 
dear,  dear  bonne.  Oh,  Kate,  it  is  all  a  dreadful  dream.  Won't 
you  call  Nannette  ?" 

"Drame!  drame  it  may  be  to  ye.  But  do  ye  think  that 
I've  bin  tuggin'  an'  luggin'  up  an'  down  to  wait  on  ye  all 
these  wakes  in  a  drame  ?  I  tell  ye  I'm  wide  awake,  and  so  ye 
will  be  afore  long.  Do'  ye  think  I'd  stan'  here,  lyin',  when 
I  didn't  know  what  word  might  kill  ye,  although  I  felt  shure 
ye  wouldn't  go,  now  ye'd  come.  Likely  I  dramed  it!  Didn't 
I  help  lay  her  out  wid  me  own  hands?  Didn't  I  take  her  own 
money  that  she'd  saved  in  the  toe  of  a  stockin'  and  go  an' 
attind  her  funeral?  Wasn't  she  taken  to  the  church?  an' 
didn't  I  hear  grand  mass  said  for  the  repose  of  her  sowl? — 
and  didn't  more  rale  tears  ryn  out  of  me  eyes  than  I  thought 
me  whole  body  could  howld  ?  Wasn't  I  cryin'  more  for  ye 
than  for  her,  ye  poor  lorn  lam'  ?  I  Avish  it  was  a  drame" — and 
Kate  fairly  broke  down,  and  her  sobbing  head  found  but  an 
uncertain  support  on  the  handle  of  her  shaking  broom. 


112  Victoire. 

"Now  I  have  towld  ye  the  truth,  and  the  whole  truth,  an' 
if  ye  hadn't  come  fairly  back  it  would  have  kilt  ye  afore  now  ; 
an'  a  great  fool  I  am,  to  be  tnakin'  a  noise  mesel',  an'  ye  so 
wake.  Mrs.  Wiggins  may  try  to  murther  me  if  she  pleases 
for  not  attindin'  to  her  rooms.  Mrs.  Skinher  may  say  that  I 
may  go  (she'll  pay  me  to  come  back  as  she  has  afore,  for 
she  knows  I  does  the  work  of  two  common  gels),  I  don't  care 
the  snap  of  me  finger  for  ather  of  thim;  ye  shall  have  a  warm 
drink  afore  I  does  another  thing ;"  and  with  these  words  Kate 
went  out  and  left  me  alone. 

Alone!  I  had  fancied  myself  alone  before.  I  had  felt 
alone,  never  dreaming  the  while  how  much  I  leaned  on  the 
humble  but  faithful  heart  which  had  given  all  its  life  to  me 
and  mine.  My  soul  just  emerging  from  the  shadow  of  death  ; 
my  senses  still  torpid  and  weak  through  suffering;  think  not 
that  in  that  moment  I  realized  what  I  had  lost,  in  the  last  relic 
of  my  family.  I  could  not  make  her  dead.  I  still  felt  that  it 
was  all  a  dream.  When  we  have  possessed  an  object  all  our  life, 
when  it  has  been  so  entirely  our  own,  that  we  have  scarcely 
thought  of  it  as  a  positive  blessing,  and  then  it  is  suddenly, 
irrevocably  taken  from  us,  through  time  only  we  grow  into 
a  full  consciousness  of  our  loss.  Not  at  first  when  the  simple 
knowledge  breaks  upon  us;  not  then,  but  in  the  days  and 
weeks  and  years  that  come  afterwards.  When,  amid  our.  life- 
way,  we  miss  and  sigh  for  the  kindness,  the  unforgotten  ten 
derness,  which  that  lost  one  gave  us ;  or  when  we  recall  in 
sad  regretfulness  our  own  lack  of  loving  deeds,  of  soothing 
sympathy,  of  tender  charity,  weeping  because  of  what  we  did 
not  do,  then  we  feel  all  that  we  have  lost,  and  weep  bitterest 
tears  over  the  memory  of  our  dead. 

Do  you  fancy  that  my  history  is  to  be  a  cemetery  lined 
with  tombs  from  its  morning  to  its  evening  gate  ?  Remember, 
many  die  that  one  may  learn  how  to  *live.  There  are  beings 
over  whose  life  no  fierce  storms  ever  sweep.  Harmonious, 
benign,  beautiful  from  their  birth,  nature's  elect  and  best  be 
loved  children,  they  need  not  the  pangs  of  bereavement,  the 
refining  fires  of  anguish,  to  winnow  their  souls  and  make  them 
pure.  Untouched  by  heavy  sorrow,  unscathed  by  dire  temp 
tation,  from  a  soft  cradle  through  a  sheltered  summer  path, 
they  pass  to  a  far  off,  peaceful  gr*ave,  beloved  in  life,  bewept 
in  death,  their  earthly  calm  anticipating  the  endless  calm  of 
Paradise.  We  see  such  beings,  we  mark  such  lives;  but  not 
to  all  his  creatures  can  the  Father  grant  such  discipline. 
There  are  torrid  souls,  whose  sultry  horizon  is  always  scintil- 


The  Coming  Back.  113 

lant  with  lurid  lightnings.  In  their  fervid  atmosphere  kindle 
all  latent  forms  of  sensuous  loveliness.  In  their  fertilizing  soil 
lies  the  germ  of  every  delight;  from  their  exhaustless  richness 
spring  luscious  fruits  in  prodigal  profusion,  mingled  with 
poisonous  growths,  bewildering  in  their  gorgeous  magnificence 
of  beauty.  These  are  the  souls  in  which  smothered  earthquakes 
pant ;  these  the  souls  athwart  whose  lavish  bloom  the  hurricane 
and  tornado  pass.  Terrible  is  the  storm  which  can  purify  the  air 
poisoned  by  its  own  superlative  sweetness,  and  tear  away  from 
that  soul  the  luxuriant  blossoms  which  poison  while  they  fill  it 
with  their  beauty.  There  are  natures  wild,  importunate,  impe 
rative  in  their  humanity.  So  tenacious  is  their  earth-grasp,  so 
absorbing  their  earth-love,  so  mad  their  clinging  worship  of  the 
earthly  idols  which  their  own  idolatry  has  fashioned,  only  by  the 
fiercest  wrenching  are  they  torn  away.  It  is  the  fate  of  such  a 
soul  to  stand  stripped  and  bare.  Every  idol  taken,  every  fibre 
bleeding,  in  its  awful  isolation  this  soul  learns  how  to  live. 
Was  this  why  I  was  utterly  bereft  that  I  might  lay  the  burden 
of  my  mortal  life  at  the  feet  of  Infinite  Pity,  and  there  learn 
patiently  to  bear  it  ? 

Days  of  darkness  creep  into  every  life,  but  not  in  the  same 
seasons.  There  are  lives  which  shut  in  night,  across  whose 
morning  never  swept  a  cloud.  There  are  mornings  heavy 
with  storm  upon  wThose  blackness  bursts  the  glory  of  a  re 
splendent  noon,  followed  by  the  mellow  splendor  of  a  tranquil 
afternoon  and  evening,  which  melts  like  a  golden  dream  into 
the  supernal  atmosphere  of  heaven.  My  morning  had  not 
passed ;  the  noon,  the  afternoon,  the  evening,  were  yet  to  come. 
Every  support  torn  away,  my  nature  stood  alone.  Now 
it  could  lean  on  the  Everlasting  Heart  and  learn  how  to 
live. 

Kate  was  right.  I  had  "  come"  and  could  not  "  go."  The 
currents  of  life,  for  a  while  reversed,  were  calmly  flowing  back 
into  their  courses.  Still  weak,  yet  certain  in  their  returning 
force,  the  sorrow  which  confronted  my  dawning  conscioxisness 
did  not  drive  them  back  to  leave  me  dead  in  my  desolation. 
No !  Life  had  come  back,  and  if  Kate  had  filled  another  hour 
with  horrors,  the  time  had  passed  in  which  they  might  have 
killed  me. 

"Kate,  what  is  that  Tying  on  the  table?  It  looks  like  a 
letter ;"  I  asked,  the  morning  after  my  return  to  life,  as  I  lay 
weak  almost  to  lifelessness  upon  my  pillow. 

"Sure,  an'  it  is  a  letthur.  Didn't  the  post-man  bring  it 
when  you  was  takin'  on  the  wust  ?  Faith,  I  forgot  it,  wid  all 


114  Victoire. 

the  rest  there  was  to  till.     An'  I'm  thiukin'  now  ye  be  n't 
strong  enough  to  rade  it." 

"Kate,  I  can  read  it,"  and  the  blood  thrilled  feebly  around 
my  heart  with  undefined  hope  and  fear,  for  I  knew  that  the 
bliss  of  heaven  or  the  pangs  of  hell  can  be  folded  within  a 
paper  envelope.  So  can  be  an  inane  nothing,  or  a  most  quiet 
joy,  such  as  I  found  in  mine.  The  letter  bore  a  foreign  post 
mark,  and  came  from  Orsino.  Kate  propped  my  head  and 
steadied  the  paper,  which  my  enfeebled  hand  held  so  tremu 
lously,  while  I  read : 

"VICTOIKE,  SISTER  : 

"  Orsino  sends  you  greeting !  a  greeting  baptized  in  the 
fervor  of  an  Italian-'s  heart.  Italy,  my  mother,  has  snatched 
me  once  more  to  her  embrace,  and  all  my  soul  blossoms.  Oh, 
Signora,  could  you  behold  me  now,  you  would  not  know  me. 
1  am  no  longer  sad,  I  no  longer  feel  alone,  I  drink  the  air  of 
Italy  and  am  glad.  In  America  I  was  in  a  wrong  latitude.  I 
did  not  belong  to  it ;  I  could  not  live  in  it.  I  grew  chilly  ;  I 
grew  cold  ;  my  nature  shrivelled,  because  there  was  no  gra 
cious  outside  warmth  to  wake  it,  to  kindle  it,  to  make  it  grow. 
Change  of  place  will  transfigure  a  man  until  he  don't  know 
himself.  In  the  wrong  place  no  man  is  great,  because  he  must 
be  false  to  himself.  His  nature  dwindles,  his  soul  grows 
stagnant,  his  power  dies.  He  is  cramped,  he  wants  room,  he 
wants  air,  he  wants  liberty.  In  the  right  place  all  his  nature 
grows  ;  it  blossoms,  it  bears  fruit ;  it  scatters  all  around  it 
rich  efflorescence.  When  he  gets  again  in  the  right  spot,  how 
he  curses  himself  for  staying  so  long  in  the  wrong.  Why  did 
I  stay  in  that  cold  country  ?  Why  did  I  creep  back  and  forth 
so  long  from  my  stupid  task,  while  all  the  time  the  sun  rose 
and  set  over  Italy ;  while  Italy  cried  for  liberty,  while  Rome, 
my  best  beloved,  languished  on  her  purple  hills,  and  wept  to 
be  free  ?  Signora,  still  you  see  I  talk  much  of  myself.  You 
t:i  nght  me  to  do  so  by  listening  so  sweetly;  by  always  say 
ing,  'Tell  me  more;  I  liki-  to  hear  you.'  I  think  of  your  great 
kindness  with  tears.  I  think  of  you,  and  am  no  longer  glad. 
I  have  a  strange  feeling  that  you  are  in  sorrow  ;  you  whom 
no  sorrow  seemed  to  touch.  Do  you  look  at  your  amulet? 
The  pearls  in  mini'  burn  like  rubies;  they  have  caught  the 
color  of  my  blood  ;  they  glow  with  the  ardor  of  my  hopes; 
only  when  I  look  at  them  and  say,  'Victoire,'  then  all  the 
ruby  dies,  the  sardine  glow  goes  out,  the  pearls  grow 
pallid  white,  and  I  feel  that  you  too  have  grown  sad  and 


Getting  Well.  115 

alone.  America  is  a  cold  country.  Signora,  come  to  Italy  : 
you  have  a  summer  soul,  and  Italy  is  a  summer  country.  The 
campagna  stretches  away  tranquil  and  smiling ;  herdsmen  and 
sheep  are  at  rest  on  its  green  expanse  ;  the  Tiber  flows  on 
without  a  murmur  of  discontent,  beneath  its  crumbling 
bridges,  beside  the  wrecks  of  departed  power ;  and  the  sun 
looks  from  the  depth  of  the  tranced  heaven,  as  calmly  as  if 
earth  never  saw  a  storm.  Yet  beneath,  and  around,  an  earth 
quake  mutters.  The  sounds  which  I  hear  stir  all  my  blood, 
arouse  all  my  nature  ;  they  make  me  heroic.  What  do  you 
think  that  they  are,  Victoire?  What,  but '  Viva  la  Liberia  /' 
These  are  the  shouts  which  I  hear :  '  Viva  V  Independenza 
d*  Italia  /'  The  terrible  words  of  the  great  Danton  are  written 
on  the  walls  of  Rome.  Do  you  wonder  that  my  blood  is 
stirred  ;  that  I  have  passed  away  from  my  common  self?  Italy 
shall  be  free !  Victoire,  does  the  shout  reach  you  across  the 
waters  ?  Do  you  hear  this  cry  ?  Oh,  if  you  were  here,  Signora, 
you  would  put  on  the  garb  of  a  Roman  soldier,  take  his  sword, 
and,  when  the  hour  comes,  strike  for  liberty.  The  nurse  of  the 
arts,  the  mother  of  the  beautiful,  a  woman  could  fight  glo 
riously  for  Italy  !  There  has  been  a  Rome  of  the  Caesars,  a 
Rome  of  the  Popes ;  the  Rome  of  the  people  is  yet  to  come! 
Italy  shall  be  free !  Do  you  believe  it,  Victoire  ?  Signora, 
write  and  say? 

"  OBSINO." 

I  fell  back  upon  my  pillow  from  physical  exhaustion.     I 
should  have  made  a  sorry  relay  for  the  "  Roman  Legion." 


GETTING    WELL. 

May  came  and  looked  in  through  my  window, — looked 
tenderly  upon  me  with  her  adolescent  eyes.  The.  earth  thrilled 
with  her  presence.  In  the  arteries  of  myriad  trees,  in  the 
veins  of  countless  flowers,  life  was  all  astir,  touched  with  her 
mystic  magnetism.  Impregnated  by  her  seminal  breath,  dor 
mant  seeds  quickened  with  new  life,  broke  from  the  fructuous 
earth,  new  creations  of  beauty.  Pallid  flowers  awoke  in  their 
humid  homes  under  the  dense,  dappled  leaves  of  the  forest, 
and  grew  warm-hued  in  the  warmth  of  her  smile;  garden 
bulbs,  the  cherished  nurslings  of  household  hands,  pushed 


ii6  Victoire. 

aside  the  homestead  mould  with  their  purple  heads,  and  hung 
in  the  irradiating  sugshine  their  prismatic  blossoms.  Dreamy, 
voluptuous  May  brushed  with  her  garments  the  cold,  proud  hills, 
and  they  glowed  with  tender  verdurous  life  ;  she  passed  over 
the  stark  orchards,  and  they  burst  into  a  passion  of  redolent 
bloom  ;  touched  with  warm  breath  the  indolent  streams,  and 
they  ran  garrulous  with  delight.  Dandelions,  far  and  near, 
inwrought  with  gold  the  green  robes  of  the  meadows;  birds 
in  their  coverts  of  daedal  leaves,  wove  all  the  air  into  song  in 
tribute  to  her  coming.  Old  men  came  out  into  the  perfume, 
the  melody  of  her  love-enkindled  air — and  felt  in  their  sunken 
veins  the  lost  pulses  of  their  youth.  Men  and  women  forgot 
their  cares  and  renewed  the  dead  courtships  of  their  vanished 
springs  ;  while  in  the  heart  of  youth  throbbed  the  old  ecstasy, 
ever  new — young  men  and  maidens  loving  and  longing  for 
each  other.  Across  vast  wildernesses  of  bloom  she  came,  and 
through  the  narrow,  stifling  window  smiled  upon  me  a  pri 
soner,  till  the  balsam  of  pines  and  the  nectar  (of  apple  blossoms 
distilled  over  my  palsied  senses.  One  year  before  I  had  gone 
forth  to  meet  her  in  the  sunny  air,  beside  singing  fountains ; 
there  she  had  baptized  me  with  her  own  plenitude  of  glad 
ness,  till  all  life  seemed  a  carol,  a  prean,  an  organ  anthem  of 
ecstatic  praise.  Now,  through  a  prisoning  window,  she  poured 
her  fragrant  blessing ;  shorn  of  its  earlier  promise,  it  was  no 
less  nature's  own  sacred  benediction.  . 

Languid,  helpless,  -still  I  lay,  longing  to  behold  the  glory 
of  the  outer  world.  Zephyrs  stole  up  from  the  little  courts 
below,  sweet  with  the  odor  of  lilacs  and  magnolias,  and  as 
they  touched  my  wasted  temples,  I  wept  with  regret  and 
gratitude.  I  knew  that  the  month  had  brought  the  annual 
exhibition  of  the  National  Academy  of  Design.  On  ray  weary 
conch  I  saw  distinctly  its  cloister-like  rooms;  felt  the  warmth, 
the  dimness,  the  repose  which  pervaded  them.  There  walked 
the  poet  to  and  fro,  his  eyes  kindling  with  fine  disapprobation, 
or  lost  in  rapt  admiration,  as  he  gazed  at  some  dream  of 
beauty  made  palpable  by  the  artist's  hand.  There  sat  the 
artist,  listening  with  throbbing  heart  to  the  spontaneous  words 
of  praise  or  blame  concerning  the  creation  into  which  he  had 
infused  his  deeper  soul.  There  stalked  the  critic,  eager  for 
the  faults  which  he  was  about  to  proclaim  to  the  world. 
There,  lost  in  dreamy  wonder,  stood  the  fair  young  girl, 
daughter  of  poverty,  perchance,  who  had  denied  herself  of 
some  needed  comfort  that  she  might  feast  her  eye  upon  forms 
of  beauty,  such  as  visited  her  in  dreams,  but  brightened  not 


Getting  Well.  117 

the  dark  home  of  her  daily  toil.  There  graceful  mothers, 
in  the  full  bloom  of  matronly  beauty,  led  about  their  pretty 
children,  tricked  in  ringlets  and  plumes,  living  pictures  rarer 
than  any  canvas  could  show.  There  stood  the  Broadway 
exquisite  and  the  Broadway  belle,  in  an  agony  of  simpering 
appreciation  and  exclamatory  delight.  There,  side  by  side, 
sat  men  and  women  who  would  rather  gaze  into  each  other's 
living  eyes  for  one  blessed  minute  than  look  upon  the  most 
wonderful  miracle  of  beauty  which  ever  artist's  soul  conceivd 
or  artist's  hand  portrayed.  There,  upon  the  sombre  wall,  in 
happy  or  hateful  shadow,  hung  the  yearly  offerings  of  Ameri 
can  art.  Faulty  (failing  oftener  in  physical  execution  than  in 
high  poetic  conception)  ;  full  of  the  inspiration  of  promise, 
seemed  these  works  of  the  vigorous,  masculine  school  of  art 
in  this  youthful  western  world. 

My  picture,  my  long  dream  of  beauty,  of  love  and  of  sorrow, 
was  not  there  to  challenge  either  condemnation  or  praise. 
No  ;  it  stood  just  where  it  stood  when  last  I  looked  upon  it 
before  I  passed  into  the  weird  realm  of  forgetfulness,  when  I 
beheld  it  with  loving  yet  foreboding  eyes.  The  day  in 
which  it  should  have  been  sent  dawned  upon  me,  yet  I  knew 
it  not ;  the  object  of  my  labor,  of  my  deepest  love,  was  no 
more  to  me  than  if  it  had  never  existed.  Was  this  the  end 
of  my  dream?  No,  not  the  end. 

As  the  long,  lonely  hours  dragged  away,  leaving  me  still  a 
prisoner,  I  learned  to  look,  and  to  long  for  nothing  so  much 
as  the  face  of  Kate,  my  unwearied  and  unfailing  friend. 
Many,  many  times  a  day,  she  came  and  covered  me  with  her 
rough  yet  tender  kindness.  The  fact  that  she  had  a  special 
object  of  care,  of  solicitude,  seemed  to  add  much  to  her  sense 
of  personal  dignity. 

"  What's  the  use  o'  livin,"  she  said,  "if  you  ben't  of  no  use 
to  nobody  ?  I  feels  as  if  I'd  somethin'  to  do,  and  was  o'  some 
account  in  the  wurld,  sin'  she  guv  ye  into  my  keepin'.  Faith, 
I  know  I'm  a  dale  happier.  I  uset  to  spind  every  spare 
minnut,  fightin'  with  Nick  the  black  sarpint.  Now  it's  mesel 
that's  somethin'  better  to  do.  Darlint,  I  would  not  care — no, 
I'd  like  it,  to  have  the  care  of  ye  allus  ;  to  be  takin'  care  of 
some  un,  gives  me  sich  a  blessed  feelin'  here."  And  Kate 
clapped  her  broad  hand  on  the  capacious  region  wrhere 
throbbed  her  great,  warm,  Irish  heart. 

I  often  wept  when  she  had  gone,  thinking  of  my  poor 
bonne.  Poor  Nannette !  Why  hadn't  I  been  kinder,  gentler, 
more  thoughtful  of  her  always  ?  Had  I  cared  for  her,  and 


ii8  Victoire. 

thought  of  her  welfare,  as  my  mother  would  have  done  ?  No, 
I  knew  that  I  had  not,  and  it  was  too  late  now.  In  watchful, 
anxious  care,  the  Irish  chambermaid  equalled  the  French 
nurse  ;  but  she  was  more  bustling  and  breezy,  brought  more 
life  with  her  into  the  room,  and  certainly  was  less  pervaded 
with  the  idea  that  "  Mademoiselle  was  crazy." 

The  hour  of  misfortune  comes,  and  we  find  ourselves  receiv 
ing  every  kindness  from  one  upon  whom  we  have  no  claims  ; 
one  from  whom  we  had  the  least  right  to  expect  sheltering 
care.  Hard  would  have  been  my  fate,  utter  my  loneliness 
and  my  need,  through  that  long,  struggling  convalescence, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  pity  and  womanly  love  of  Kate,  the 
Irish  chambermaid. 

I  was  dressed  at  last ;  another  day,  and  I  thought  that  I 
should  be  strong  enough  to  walk  out  into  the  air.  On  that 
morning  Mrs.  Skinher  called  for  the  first  time. 

"You  have  had  a  long  illness,"  she  observed,  as  she 
smoothed  the  skirt  of  her  gorgeous  morning  robe  and  seated 
herself.  "  A  long  illness,  but  you  have  had  the  best  of  care." 

"  Yes,  Kate  has  been  as  kind  as  a  mother." 

"  Kate!  She  could  not  have  taken  care  of  you  without  my 
permission.  Of  course  you  could  not  expect  me  to  stay  in  a 
sick  room,  and  have  the  care  of  this  great  house  on  my  hands 
besides  ?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  could  neither  have  expected  nor.  have  wished 
such  a  thing." 

"  But  your  tone  gives  all  the  credit  to  Kate.  Kate  is  a 
lazy  thing,  and  would  rather  be  fussing  in  here,  than  doing 
her  proper  work." 

"  I  don't  think  she  is  lazy,  Mrs.  Skinher." 

"  You  don't  think  so  ?  What  do  you  know  about  it,  pray? 
I  think  that  I  have  some  opportunity  to  understand  the 
character  of  my  servants.  Kate  is  a  lazy  thing.  She  has 
spent  twice  the  time  in  this  room  that  she  had  any  occasion 
to.  Yet  I  endured  it.  I  was  not  going  to  have  it  flung  in 
my  face  that  I  neglected  you  ;  nor  have  the  fuss  which  was 
made  over  Miss  De  Ray.  You  have  made  me  more  trouble 
than  you  can  ever  pay  for.  Nannette  was  the  best  pastry 
cook  that  I  ever  had,  and  I  have  no  idea  that  she  would  have 
died  if  she  hadn't  been  so  frightened  and  troubled  about 
you.  The  doctor  said  that  she  had  the  heart  disease,  but  I 
am  sure  that  she  would  not  have  died  when  she  did,  if  you 
h:id  not  been  taking  on  at  such  a  rate.  Some  people  seem 
born  to  make  others  trouble.  For  my  part,  I  have  managed 


Getting  Well.  119 

to  live  in  the  world,  and  to  take  care  of  myself  without  help, 
and  without  troubling  other  people." 

I  did  not  disturb  her  complacent  conclusion  with  a  reply. 

"Miss  Vernoid,  I  suppose  that  you  are  aware  you  have 
contracted  a  large  bill  during  your  sickness  ?" 

"  What  is  its  amount,  Mrs.  Skinher  ?" 

"  Something  over  three  hundred  dollars.  A  small  sum, 
except  to  those  who  have  no  money.  There  is  three  months' 
board  due.  As  you  retained  your  room,  and  had  the  care  of 
a  nurse,  I  did  not  reduce  the  weekly  charge  ;  in  justice  to 
myself  I  should  have  charged  more,  but  I  did  not.  Then 
extras  for  coal  and  gas  amount  to  something.  Besides,  here 
is  the  doctor's  bill,  which  I  paid  myself.  I  did  not  wish  Dr. 
Smirk  to  think  that  I  kept  a  class  of  boarders  who  were  not 
able  to  pay  their  physician.  In  all,  it  is  three  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars.  Here  is  the  bill,  with  all  the  charges."  And 
she  arose  and  handed  it  to  me. 

"  I  came  in  to  give  you  some  advice,"  she  added,  resuming 
her  seat.  "  I  think  that  you  need  it.  And  to  tell  you  that  I 
am  prepared  to  make  the  payment  of  this  bill  very  easy  for 
you.  If  you  will  transfer  the  ownership  of  these  paintings  to 
me,  I  will  give  you  a  receipt  in  full.  Nothing  could  be  easier." 

"  Nothing  could  be  harder.  I  shall  never  sell  these  paint 
ings.  But  I  will  leave  them  as  security  till  I  can  earn  money 
to  pay  you.  I  would  as  soon  sell  myself  as  my  mother's 
picture." 

"  Fudge !  I  care  nothing  about  your  mother's  picture, 
except  that  it  is  the  handsome  portrait  of  a  handsome  face, 
and  would  look  well  in  my  back  parlor.  The  large  painting 
I  want  for  the  front  one.  You  are  not  in  circumstances  to  be 
sentimental,  Miss  Vernoid.  You  might  as  well  transfer  the 
right  of  ownership  at  once.  You  will  never  redeem  them.  It 
needs  no  penetration  to  see  that  you  are  not  one  of  the  sort 
to  make  money.  If  you  must  earn  your  living,  it  will  be  a 
hand  to  mouth  sort  of  business,  I  know.  I  don't  believe  that 
you  have  any  more  faculty  to  get  on  than  Miss  De  Ray." 

"  If  I  have  not,  I  shall  not  sell  my  pictures." 

"  Oh,  no ;  such  folks  are  always  running  into  the  face  of 
their  own  interest.  I  suppose  that  you'd  rather  stay  in  debt ; 
a  pretty  way  to  begin  life  !  My  advice  to  you  is :  live  with 
in  your  means.  If  you  have  only  two  cents,  be  content  with 
what  two  cents  will  bring.  People  will  respect  you  more  for 
it,  for  you  won't  rob  them.  The  little  you  have  will  be  your 
own,  and  you  can  be  as  independent  on  a  crust,  if  it's  only 


no  Victoire. 

paid  for,  as  if  you  sat  on  a  throne.  That's  my  doctrine.  Go 
to  a  cheap,  but  decent  down-town  boarding-house,  there  are 
lots  of  them,  and  begin  life  right ;  that's  my  advice,  Miss  Ver- 
noid.  Give  me  your  pictures,  clear  yourself  of  debt,  then 
you  can  begin  life  fair  and  square." 

"  I  like  your  advice,  all  but  the  last  sentence.  I  shall  not 
transfer  my  paintings  to  you  ;  but  I  will  leave  them  as  security 
for  my  debt.  It  is  useless  to  ask  me  to  sell  them." 

"  It  will  be  all  the  same  to  me  in  the  end,"  she  answered, 
exultingly.  "  When  will  you  earn  three  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  to  redeem  them  ?  With  all  your  painting,  I  don't  see 
that  it  brings  you  any  money.  I  should  throw  up  such  a 
worthless  business." 

"  Mrs.  Skinher,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  return  the  hair 
which  you  cut  off  from  my  head  during  my  illness." 

She  started.  "Wasn't  it  my  duty  to  cut  it  off?  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  any  one  getting  well  of  a  brain  fever  with  such 
a  mop  of  hair  on  their  head  ?  If  I  hadn't  cut  it  off,  it  would 
have  dropped  off,  every  hair  of  it.  I  did  my  duty." 

"I  am  not  impugning  your  motives,  nor  finding  fault  be 
cause  you  cut  it,  though  I  had  much  rather  it  had  dropped  in 
my  hands  than  have  been  shorn  off  when  I  did  not  know  it. 
I  only  ask  you  to  return  it,  Mrs.  Skinher." 

"  Return  it !  Why,  do  you  think  that  I  have  it  ?  What 
should  I  want  with  your  hair?" 

"  Nothing,  I  should  think.  So  you  will  return  it,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  I  am  willing  to  help  you  in  any  reasonable  way.  It  might 
make  me  a  soft  pincushion.  I  will  give  you  five  dollars  for  it." 

"  It  is  worth  more  than  five  dollars  to  me  for  its  memories, 
and  worth  more  than  that  to  any  one  else  who  wants  it.  I 
am  unwilling  to  sell  it,  Mrs.  Skinher." 

"  A  wonderful  opinion  you  have  of  your  hair,"  she  said, 
red  with  anger  and  embarrassment.  "  I  won't  be  mean. 
I  will  allow  you  ten  dollars ;  but  I  want  no  words  about  it." 

It  was  useless  to  attempt  further  to  recover  my  lost 
treasure.  Already  Mrs.  Skiuher  had  had  it  transformed  into 
a  wig. 

"  Remember  that  these  are  all  to  be  left,"  she  said,  with  a 
deep  emphasis  on  att,  looking  around  on  the  pictures  and 
rising  to  depart.  "  And  the  sooner  you  make  a  change  the 
better.  I  can't  keep  Kate  out  of  your  room,  and  I  need  her. 
You  don't  want  to  increase  your  debt,  for  I  cannot  allow 
more  for  the  paintings.  You  had  better  get  another  boarding 
place  as  soon  as  possible.  I  am  willing  to  be  a  referee  for 


Getting  Well.  121 

your  respectability."  And  Mrs.  Skinher  shut  the  door  with 
that  sharp,  hard  ring,  so  like  her. 

Gone  !  I  looked  around  upon  my  pictures,  my  silent  sacred 
friends,  and  no  tear  rose  to  my  eye.  I  knew  that  I  could  not 
lose  them  ;  they  were  too  much  a  part  of  me  to  go  from  me 
for  ever.  I  may  part  with  you  for  a  season,  but  you  will  all 
return  to  me  again,  I  said,  with  a  smile  of  faith,  darkened  by 
no  shadow  of  doubt. 

A  new  purpose  came  intp  my  heart,  and  with  it  new  strength 
into  my  limbs,  new  vitality  into  my  veins.  I  took  up  the 
morning  paper  which  Kate  had  brought  me,  and  commenced 
reading  the  "  Wants."  I  had  read  but  a  little  way  when  I 
came  to  this  advertisement : 

"  At  No.  street,  respectable  sewing  girls,  or  ladies  with  limited 

means,  will  find  a  comfortable  home  for  a  moderate  charge.  Good  references 
given  and  required." 

I  could  not  wait  for  the  morrow  to  find  the  air,  nor  to  know 
my  destiny.  With  trembling  steps  I  sought  the  city  cars, ' 
and  the  cars  conveyed  me  to  the  very  threshold  of  the 
"  comfortable  home."  I  found  it  not  so  comfortable  as  it 
might  have  been.  It  was  a  forbidding  looking  house,  in  a 
forbidding  street.  I  found  that  its  proprietress  was  a  respect 
able  widow  of  the  rusty  bombazine  and  wan-featured  type. 
She  looked  pinched  and  care-worn  ;  anxious,  but  not  hard ; 
nervous,  but  not  cruel ;  with  a  piteous  "  where-shall-I-get-my- 
daily-bread  "  look  in  her  faded  eyes.  Her  house  was  intensely 
shabby,  so  was  she,  but  it  was  the  result  of  poverty,  not  of 
meanness.  She  had  a  kind,  humane  look  in  her  eyes  which 
prepossessed  me  in  her  favor. 

"  I  cannot  make  the  home  as  comfortable  as  I  wish  ;  but  I 
do  the  best  I  can,"  she  said.  "  The  women  who  live  here  can 
afford  to  pay  very  little  for  their  board.  Some  of  them  are 
rough.  I  fear  that  you  would  not  find  them  the  company  you 
have  been  used  to,  still  they  are  decent." 

She  seemed  anxious  lest  I  should  expect  more  than  she 
could  give  me.  "  I  will  try  it.  I  ask  only  for  quiet.  I  ex 
pect  little." 

"  When  will  you  come  ?" 

"  To-morrow." 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  on  my  way  back  to  Mrs.  Skinher's. 

Once  more  in  my  room,  I  made  up  a  little  package  of  keep 
sakes  for  Kate — a  few  wearing  trinkets,  and  a  small  engrav 
ing  of  Raphael's  Madonna,  which  I  had  seen  her  cross  herself 

6 


1 22  Victoire. 

before  very  often.  I  had  scarcely  done  this  when  she  entered. 
She  had  missed  me,  and  now  came  full  of  consternation. 

"  Sure,  afthur  all,"  she  thought, "  I  had  gone,  and  kilt  meself." 

"No,"  I  said.  "I  shall  never  do  anything  so  foolish.  I 
love  to  live  too  well ;  but  I  am  going  away,  Kate.  Here  are 
some  keepsakes  for  you,  and  some  time — some  time,  Kate,  I 
shall  pay  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me.  I  love  you,  Kate, 
for  your  blessed  heart ;  and  shall  never  forget  to  be  grateful. 

Come  to  No. street  and  see  me.  If  I  ever  have  a 

home  I'd  like  to  take  care  of  you,  Kate ! " 

It  was  the  last  day  of  May  that  I  left  Mrs.  Skinher's.  The 
sun  poured  into  my  window,  flooding  all  my  pictured  faces  as 
I  stood  and  looked  at  them  for  the  last  time.  I  took  but  one 
away.  I  carried  in  my  hand,  when  I  passed  from  that  door, 
but  one  thing.  It  was  a  small  medallion  engraving  of  Cor- 
reggio's  Christ.  All  women  love  Christ.  They  come  to  God 
through  Him.  They  feel  their  souls  drawn  towards  Him 
through  the  divinest  sympathy.  Not  so  much  by  word  as 
deed  did  Jesus  prove  his  tender,  loving  compassion  for  women. 
"  Daughter,  thy  sins  are  all  forgiven  thee ;  go  and  sin  no 
more,"  were  the  words  of  the  immaculate  Master  in  the  face 
of  accusing,  self-righteous,  polluted  men.  No  wonder  that  wo 
men  followed  Him  from  afar,  touching  the  hem  of  His  garment, 
that,  by  some  mysterious  power,  a  little  of  the  God-life  might 
be  imparted  to  them ;  no  wonder  that  Martha  served  Him  ; 
that  Mary  sat  at  His  feet ;  no  wonder  that  to-day,  in  the  secret 
and  silent  places  all  over  this  grief-smitten  earth,  does  the 
loving,  longing,  unfilled  heart  of  woman  pour  its  floods  of 
infinite  want  into  the  bosom  of  the  Lord  and  Saviour  of  her 
soul. 

The  sun  suffused  the  marble  vestibule  with  amber,  as  Nick 
opened  the  door  for  me  for  the  last  time.  Brightly  the  sun  shone 
on  the  marble  steps ;  its  gold  gleamed  through  the  shimmer 
ing  maples,  which  shaded  the  broad,  clean  street  with  their 
refreshing  green,  their  umbrageous,  shifting  shadows ;  the  air 
was  sweet  with  magnolias;  and  so,  with  my  "dead  Christ" 
in  my  hand,  I  went  away. 


ANOTHER   BOARDING-HOTJSB. 

Another  transition  I  Another  change,  greater  than  had  ever 
come  to  me  before.   Persons  who,  in  travelling,  have  accident- 


Another  Boarding-House.  123 

ally  found  themselves  in  the  sitting-room  of  a  third-rate  hotel, 
can,  without  difficulty,  see  the  apartment  in  which  I  found 
myself  at  the  "comfortable  home,"  dingy,  smutty,  uncomfort 
able,  odious.  I  had  not  the  consolation  of  remembering  that 
I  was  only  a  traveller ;  no,  I  had  come  to  stay,  not  to  live. 
A  passive  existence  in  such  a  place  could  not  be  life,  at  least 
to  me.  The  room  was  large  and  dark  ;  the  windows,  looking 
out  upon  a  narrow,  dismal  street,  were  hung  with  cobwebs  and 
tattered  shades.  The  walls  were  hung  with  coarse,  gaudy 
paper,  enamelled  with  grease  spots  and  holes,  with  powdered 
plastering  sifting  through  ;  adorned  also  with  colored  prints, 
pictures  of  buxom  ladies  in  red  dresses,  with  a  full-blown  rose 
in  their  hair  or  in  their  bosom,  bearing  the  euphonious  name 
of  "Nancy,"  or  "Laura- Jane,"  or  the  more  startling  ones  of 
"  Star  of  the  Evening,"  "Light  of  the  Morning,"  or  one  equally 
poetic  and  sublime.  A  faded  cotton  carpet  covered  the  floor ; 
a  coarse  wooden  stand  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  in 
lieu  of  a  more  graceful  centre  table ;  on  it,  around  a  corroded 
lamp,  were  piled  some  torn  newspapers,  the  current  almanac 
for  the  year,  a  well-thumbed  city  directory,  an  abridged  copy 
of  Webster's  Dictionary,  and  a  shabby  Bible.  A  faded  lounge, 
a  fly-specked  looking-glass,  and  wooden  chairs  completed  the 
furniture.  Too  weak  to  stand,  I  sank  upon  a  chair  beside  the 
table,  leaned  my  head  upon  my  hand,  and  turned  from  the 
room  to  its  inmates. 

Alas !  what  weary,  haggard  faces !  Brows  prematurely 
wrinkled  and  furrowed  with  care.  The  traces  of  hard  pas 
sion,  the  sullen,  vacant  or  brazen  expression  on  the  different 
faces,  told  how  the  fine  temper  of  the  soul  had  been  destroyed 
in  the  fierce  furnace  of  their  struggling  life.  Evidently  the 
women  who  sat  there  were  on  a  level  with  their  surroundings; 
they  looked  coarse  and  vulgar,  or  sick  and  unhappy.  All  sat 
bowed  over  their  work,  sewing  vigorously,  some  with  con 
tracted  brows  in  sullen  silence,  others  discussed  loudly  some 
topic  of  vulgar  life,  while  a  few  seemed  to  derive  their  enter 
tainment  from  ridiculing  a  girl  who  sat  in  silence,  quite  apart 
from  the  rest.  I  listened  to  the  dissonant  voices,  to  the  rude 
laughter,  to  the  jests,  and  sickened  with  disgust.  Perhaps  this 
sickness  suffused  my  face,  for  they  looked  at  me  askance,  and 
with  little  welcome  in  the  look. 

"  Guess  Miss  Grammar  has  got  somebody  to  keep  her 
company  at  last,"  said  a  red-haired,  red-eyed,  freckle-faced 
girl,  turning  towards  the  solitary  one  whom  they  were 
ridiculing. 


1 24  Victoire. 

"-Where's  your  manners,  Nance?"  said  a  little  pert,  button- 
eyed  girl,  with  a  nose  in  the  air. 

"  Hain't  got  none  ;  they  ain't  needed  here." 

"  Well,  folks  might  as  well  be  civil,"  answered  Pert. 

"  Civil !  ain't  I  civil,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  You  know  well  as 
me  that  Miss  Grammar  thinks  that  we  ain't  none  of  us  good 
enough  to  keep  her  company.  I  reckoned  she'd  like  to  know 
somebody  had  come  what  was  probably  good  enough  in  their 
own  opinion,  anyhow,"  said  Nance,  with  a  toss  of  her  head 
towards  me,  which  she  intended  should  be  very  contemptuous, 
but  which  was  only  ridiculous. 

"  You'd  better  leave  them  that  hain't  hurt  you  alone," 
protested  little  Pert.  "  I  don't  blame  Grammar  a  snap  for 
cutting  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  don't ;  but  you  are  mad  as  a  hare  when  she 
cuts  you.  You'd  put  on  as  many  airs  as  she,  if  you  know'd 
enough  to  carry  them." 

"  I  know  enough  to  carry  all  the  airs  I  please,"  and  with 
these  words,  the  nose  in  the  air  went  up  higher,  as  if  infinitely 
insulted. 

I  was  greatly  amused.  In  this  circle,  coarse  as  it  was,  caste 
had  entered.  Here,  as  everywhere  else,  society  was  strug 
gling  to  sustain  its  distinctions.  Already  I  had  heard  enough 
to  know  that  the  girl  Avhom  they  called  Grammar  was  the 
butt  of  the  rest,  and  a  glance  at  her  revealed  the  reason.  She 
looked  as  much  out  of  place  as  would  a  seraph  from  heaven. 
A  slight,  willowy  figure  sat  in  the  low  wooden  chair;  a  slen 
der  foot,  with  a  proudly-curved  instep,  rested  on  the  bare 
wooden  stool ;  small,  thin  hands  stitched  on,  without  ceasing, 
the  delicate  fingers  stained  with  the  dark  fabric  which  they 
were  sewing.  That  foot  would  have  looked  more  at  home 
nestled  in  velvet  cushions;  that  hand  was  fair  and  lovely 
enough  to  have  been  shaded  by  ethereal  laces  ;  just  the  fin 
gers  those  to  sweep  over  the  keys  of  a  piano,  or  the  cords 
of  a  harp,  or  to  touch  with  grace  the  artistic  appliances  of  a 
sumptuous  home.  The  head  and  face  were  wonderful.  The 
head  seemed  too  massive,  too  powerful  for  that  slender  body. 
The  heavy  braids  of  black  shining  hair,  wound  round  and 
round  it,  rendered  its  classical  contour  still  more  sinking.  In 
tellect  was  embossed  upon  the  pale,  broad  brow.  Genius 
wept  in  the  great  dark,  despairing  eyes.  With  these  features 
the  positive  beauty  of  the  face  ended.  The  lower  portion 
was  painful.  The  muscles  around  the  mouth  frere  tense,  rigid 
• — not  with  harshness;  it  was  the  tension  of  suffering,  the 


.     'Another  Boarding-House.  125" 

rigidity  of  endurance.  The  strained  lines  were  replete  with 
strength.  The  wounded  heart  might  throb  with  throes  of 
most  poignant  pain,  but  those  lines  held  down  the  quivering 
lips,  and  the  proud  soul  would  utter  not  a  single  cry. 

The  rude  thrusts  of  her  companions  seemed  not  to  reach 
her.  Had  they  spoken  in  a  language  which  she  could  not 
understand  she  could  not  have  sat  more  impassive,  more 
unmoved.  The  calm,  compressed  lips  relaxed  neither  in 
anger,  in  sarcasm,  nor  in  scorn.  The  great  eyes  looked 
straight  at  the  stitching,  as  if  stitching  comprehended  the  uni 
verse.  This  composure  could  only  be  the  offspring  of  a  strong 
character,  of  a  great  nature ;  it  was  not  the  child  of  inanity. 
If  ever  power,  capacity  to  suffer ;  if  ever  soul  was  stamped 
upon  the  human  face,  it  was  upon  hers.  She  could  not  have 
been  more  than  twenty,  yet  to  look  in  her  eyes,  you  felt  that 
she  had  lived  centuries.  I  saw  that  her  nature  was  self- 
poised  and  solitary  ;  saw  that  she  lived  in  a  region  apart  from 
her  companions ;  one  that  they  could  not  reach,"  nor  even 
discern. 

Still  I  sat  by  the  shabby  stand,  studying  this  face,  when  a 
young  girl  tripped  in,  whom  Nance  instantly  hailed  as 
"Tip." 

"  Well,  Miss  Tip,  have  you  come  again  to  'stonish  us  all  ?" 

"  Yes.  Why  not  ?"  replied  the  young  creature  with  a 
voice  and  a  laugh  gay  as  a  running  brook. 

"  Why  not !  Well,  if  that  isn't  cool !  Why  shouldn't  one 
sister  set  herself  up  for  her  learnin',  and  t'other  for  her  beauty  ? 
I'll  tell  you  just  why:  'cause  decent  people  don't  like  to  be 
imposed  on ;  that's  why.  For  my  part  I  feel  as  good  as  any 
body." 

"  I'm  glad  that  you  do  ;  why  shouldn't  you,  Nancy  ?" 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  'cause  some  folks  think  I  ain't ;  some 
folks  are  so  big  feelin'  they  think  nobody  hain't  so  grand  as 
they  are.  Let  'em  stick  up.  I  ask  nothin'  of  nobody.  I'm's 
good  as  the  grandest  lady  what  walks  the  street." 

Tip  had  no  reply  for  Nancy's  most  satisfactory  estimate  of 
herself.  She  had  dropped  a  bundle  upon  the  floor  at  Gram 
mar's  feet,  and  sat  down  upon  the  low  stool  before  her. 

"  What  did  Mr.  Bertram  say  ?"  asked  Grammar,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"He  said  that  he  was  sorry,  but  that  he  couldn't  treat  you 
any  better  than  the  other  '  hands ;' — that  he  must  cut  down 
the  pay." 

"  What  have  you  brought  ?" 


1 26  Victoire. 

"  Satin  vests,  two  shillings  apiece." 

"  And  he  will  sell  them  for  ten  dollars,"  said  Grammar,  and 
I  saw  the  muscles  around  the  white  mouth  quiver.  "  You 
will  have  to  give  up  your  music  lessons,  Hope.'* 

"  Never  mind ;  1  can  help  you  the  more.  I  have  been  think 
ing  of  it  all  the  way  back  that  I  would  help  you  more,  and 
it  will  make  me  so  happy." 

"  Hope,  I  don't  want  you  to  help  me  more." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  don't  want  her  to  help  you,  do  you  ?  We  all 
know'd  that  afore.  You  want  to  make  a  grand  lady  of  Miss 
Tip,  don't  you  ?  You  want  to  marry  her  to  a  rich  man,  don't 
you  ?  Then  Aunt  Grammar  can  take  care  of  the  children. 
She  needn't  work  for  other  folks  no  more ;  she  can  put  on  as 
many  airs  as  she  pleases,"  shouted  Nance,  who  had  overheard 
Grammar's  last  words. 

"  If  I  ever  do  have  a  nice  house,  I'll  invite  all  you  girls  to 
a  tea  party,"  said  Tip. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you'd  like  to  crow  over  us,  perhaps,  if  we  hadn't 
made  as  good  markets,"  exclaimed  Nance  and  Pert  in  a 
breath. 

"  No,  indeed,  but  how  good  it  would  seem  to  have  one  nice 
tea  all  together.  No  frowy  butter,  no  skippery  cheese,  no 
chalky  milk ;  but  tea  with  white  sugar  and  cream,  and  straw 
berries,  and  biscuit  white  as  snow.  Wouldn't  it  be  pleasant, 
girls  ?" 

"  A  likely  story,"  said  Nance,  in  a  milder  tone,  mollified  by 
the  epicurean  picture  in  spite  of  herself.  "Do  you  think  that 
Aunt  Grammar  would  allow  any  such  doin's  ?  She  won't  let 
you  keep  our  company  now ;  do  you  think  that  she'll  let  you 
do  it  then,  when  you  live  in  a  fine  house  of  your  own  ?"  And 
Nancy's  tone  unconsciously  betrayed  a  faith  in  Tip's  exalted 
destiny  as  well  as  in  the  life-long  authority  of  Grammar. 

During  the  conversation  I  had  been  gazing  at  Tip.  No 
wonder  that  Nance  had  asked  if  she  had  come  to  astonish  us. 
She  astonished  me  with  her  rare,  her  radiant  beauty.  She 
was  not  more  than  fourteen.  She  stood  on  the  mystic 
boundary  which  divides  childhood  from  womanhood  ;  dazzling 
as  a  child,  I  was  lost  in  imagining  what  the  glory  of  the  woman 
would  be.  She  wore  a  rose-pink  calico  dress,  terminating  at 
the  ankle,  displaying  a  petite,  patrician  foot,  in  a  high,  plain 
shoe.  A  mantle  of  muslin  revealed  the  aerial  outline  of  her 
undulating,  girlish  figure,  while  the  broad  flat  upon  her  head 
shaded,  yet  exposed  the  beautiful  features.  Had  her  hair 
been  fairer,  she  would  have  been  a  blonde,  for  her  complexion 


Another  Boarding-House.  127 

was  transparently  pure,  the  faintest  of  rose  tints  inlaying  the 
pearly  cheeks.  Her  hair  gleamed  dusky-purple  in  the  sun  ; 
dark  it  was,  yet  it  seemed  infiltrated  with  shifting  golden 
lights ;  it  covered  the  delicate  head  with  waves,  falling  around 
the  slender  w-aist  in  curls  profuse  and  free.  The  young  lip 
was  glorious ;  the  eyes  enough  to  make  an  artist  mad  not  to 
paint  their  color,  but  expression.  The  irides  of  deep,  lucent 
blue  were  almost  covered  with  the  dark,  dilating,  lumi 
nous  pupil,  which  produced  the  rare  combination  of  melting 
softness  and  kindling  brilliancy.  Serene  to  sadness,  they 
drooped  under  the  long  curled  lashes,  but  only  opened  to 
scintillate  starry  sunshine,  which  seemed  to  radiate  from  her 
inmost  being,  to  glance  and  play  over  every  feature,  baptizing 
herself  and  every  surrounding  object  with  its  effluence  of 
brightness.  It  was  die  outflowing  light  of  innocence,  of 
enthusiasm ;  the  guileless  glory  of  a  sunny  and  unsullied 
soul,  which  sin  had  never  shadowed  nor  sorrow  dared  to 
darken. 

"  Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  light; 
The  very  air  seemed  brighter  for  her  eyes, 
They  were  so  soft,  and  beautiful,  and  rife 
With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies;" 

besides  all  that  we  dream  over  and  long  for  in  the  loveliest 
of  the  earth. 

Tip's  story  of  strawberries  and  cream,  of  "biscuits  white  as 
snow,"  was  interrupted  by  a  bond  fide  ring  for  supper.  The 
girls  dropped  their  work  simultaneously,  and  passed  through 
a  dark  passage,  down  into  a  damp  basement,  where  tea  was 
spread.  It  presented  a  dismal  contrast  to  the  brilliant  dining 
hall,  the  elegantly  arranged  table  of  Mrs.  Skinher,  resplen 
dent  with  china  and  silver.  When  I  saw  the  food  prepared, 
I  did  not  wonder  that  the  young  girl's  fancy  had  hovered  over 
something  good  to  eat.  Fastidious  by  nature  and  education, 
I  could  not  overcome  the  repugnance  the  table  appoint 
ments  aroused  sufficiently  to  eat.  The  soiled  brown  cloth, 
the  cracked  colored  ware,  the  brassy  spoons,  were  bad  enough  ; 
but  the  black,  leathery  bread,  the  cake,  apparently  shortened 
with  candle-grease,  the  rancid  butter,  and  the  sloppy  tea  were 
worse.  No  one  but  Nance  seemed  to  partake  of  the  food 
with  the  slightest  relish.  Grammar's  great  eyes  dilated  over 
her  tea  cup,  as  if  she  saw  wondrous  visions  in  it ;  but  not  a 
mouthful  of  food  passed  her  lips.  The  sweet  child  beside  her 
seemed  to  make  fruitless  efforts  to  swalloAV  the  coarse  food 


1 28  Victoire. 

which  I  knew  must  hurt  her  delicate  throat.  As  I  compared 
her  softly  curved,  blooming  face  with  the  murky,  angular 
faces  of  her  companions,  I  was  almost  tempted  to  believe  that 
the  angels  fed  her  in  secret  with  their  own  ambrosia,  so  much 
finer  and  ethereal  seemed  her  composition  than  such  poisoned 
nutriment  could  make. 

After  tea  the  girls  returned  to  their  tasks.  I  asked  to  be 
shown  to  my  room.  "  My  room  !"  I  said  again,  as  I  stood 
alone  gazTng  around  it.  "My  room  !  Have  I  come  to  this  ?" 
"  Yes,  you  have  come  to  this,"  answered  Fact.  "  You  prayed 
for  life  ;  accept  without  a  murmur  what  it  gives  you." 

The  chambers  had  been  portioned  into  small  sleeping  closets. 
I  stood  in  the  midst  of  one  of  them.  It  was  just  large  enough 
to  hold  a  bed,  a  stand,  a  single  chair,  with  sufficient  useless 
space  to  hold  a  trunk.  Thank  God  it  had  a  window,  which, 
though  it  looked  out  upon  a  reeking  alley,  was  better  than 
none.  I  knew  in  the  day  a  few  faint  sunbeams  would  struggle 
down  to  bless  me,  and  that,  when  I  was  very  hungry  for  the 
sight,  I  could  thrust  my  face  into  the  air  and  catch  a  glimpse, 
only  a  glimpse,  of  the  azure  heaven  above  the  house  tops. 
I  hung  my  pictured  Christ  on  the  narrow  strip  of  wall  at  the 
foot  of  my  bed,  where  the  divine  eyes  could  greet  me  first  on 
waking ;  where  I  could  look  into  them,  and  gather  courage  and 
comfort  to  bear  me  through  my  weary  days. 

This  done,  I  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  my  low  cot  and 
began  to  think.  If  I  had  found  nothing  else  to  arouse  my 
interest,  I  should  probably  have  fallen  back  upon  ihe  con 
sideration  of  my  miserable  self  and  more  miserable  condition  ; 
but  as  it  was  I  thought  only  of  Grammar  and  Tip.  So  unlike, 
yet  each  so  intensely  interesting ;  the  one  so  beautiful,  the 
other  so  great.  Who  could  they  be  ?  How  had  they  come 
into  such  a  place  ?  Alas,  that  I  was  not  rich  that  I  might  paint 
their  faces,  and  take  them  and  myself  away  from  this  hateful 
place.  But  as  it  was,  I  was  sure  that  we  should  be  friends 
and  love  each  other.  How  I  thanked  God  in  humble  grati 
tude  that  I  had  never  found  a  spot  so  dark  but  that  it  held 
some  bright  thing  ;  something  to  bless  me  ;  something  that  I 
could  love. 

My  meditation  was  broken  by  the  opening  of  the  door  in 
the  adjoining  room.  There  was  only  a  thin  partition  between, 
so  that  I  heard  distinctly.  Some  of  the  girls  were  retiring 
for  the  night.  In  a  moment  I  recognised  the  voices  of  the 
sisters  who  had  absorbed  my  thought. 

"  This  has  been  a  sad  day,  Hope,"  said  Grammar. 


Another  Boarding-House.  129 

"  Yes,  a  little  sad  ;  very  sad  for  you  ;  you  fee  everything 
so  much,  dear  Morna.  Don't  feel  so  bad  about  the  music  les 
sons.  I  shall  learn  them  some  time,  and  if  I  let  them  rest  a 
little  while,  I  can  help  you  so  much  more." 

"  Don't  speak  of  helping  me,  again,  Hope  ;  don't  !  You 
know  that  every  stitch  which  you  take  in  that  wretched 
sewing,  only  hinders  you  so  much  in  your  preparation  for  the 
situation  which  you  are  suited  to  fill.  Don't  speak  again  of 
helping  me  in  that  way ;  you  know  that  I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  Well,  I  won't,  dear  Morna,  if  you  will  believe  in  the  '  good 
time  coming." 

"  The  good  time  ?  it  has  never  come  to  us  yet,  Hope." 

"But  it  will.  Morna,  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  if  it  were 
here." 

"  You  are  young,  Hope,  and  I  don't  know  why,  but  you 
learn  nothing  of  life  even  from  its  miseries." 

"I  never  felt  miserable,  Morna.  How  can  I,  when  our 
Father  in  Heaven  is  so  kind.  But  I  feel  sad  because  you  are 
so  anxious  about  me.  I  have  no  fear.  God  will  take  care  of 
us  ;  you  know  that  He  always  has.  I  am  sure  that  He  won't 
leave  us,  if  we  try  to  be  good." 

"  Good !  It  is  almost  impossible  to  be  good  under  some 
circumstances,  at  least  for  me.  I  cannot  always  be  patient.  I 
feel  very  rebellious  to-night.  I  did  not  feel  half  so  much  so 
when  I  had  to  give  up  my  own  music,  for  then  you  could  still 
continue  yours.  But  now,  to  know  that  your  lessons  must  be 
discontinued,  because,  work  as  we  will,  we  cannot  pay  for 
them  ;  to  know  that  the  harder  we  work  the  less  we  receive,  and 
that  it  is  all  that  we  can  possibly  do  to  pay  for  our  miserable 
shelter  and  unsatisfying  food,  seems  a  little  more  than  I  can 
silently  bear.  I  want  to  believe,  but  to-night,  I  can't,  that 
God  is  kind,  that  He  rules  this  world  justly.  This  moment  I 
cannot  feel  that  He  does." 

"  Oh,  Morna,  what  would  our  mother  say  to  such  words  ! 
If  we  can  go  to'heaven,  as  she  did,  won't  it  be  enough  ?" 

"No!  not  as  I  now  feel,  it  would  not  be  enough.  To  go 
to  heaven  as  she  did  would  be  torture.  It  is  a  great  sorrow 
on  my  heart  to-day  that  she  who  loved  all  beautiful  things, 
who  was  all  beauty  and  love  herself,  had  nothing  in  this  world 
but  a  hard,  grinding  life ;  nothing  but  poverty  and  pain,  and 

died  at  last  as .  Oh  !  I  cannot  think  of  it ;  the  thought 

makes  me  mad  !  Yet  I  am  wicked,  Hope,  and  I  cannot  help 
it.  If  God  wanted  me  to  grope  through  this  world  without 
seeing  its  glwy  or  longing  for  its  joy,  He  would  have  given 

6* 


130  Victoire. 

me  a  different  nature.  I  cannot  believe  that  earth  is  a  place 
in  which  we  are  born  simply  to  dig  and  die.  Mere  breath  is 
not  life.  I  want  to  live !  I  want  life  for  my  soul !  I  want  to 
know,  I  want  to  enjoy,  I  want  to  give  expression  to  the  force 
within  me.  I  cannot  forget  how  much  wisdom  and  beauty, 
how  much  love  and  happiness,  there  is  in  the  world,  and  all 
locked  away  from  me,  and  from  you  who  were  created  to  be 
so  much  happier  than  I.  And  when  I  think  of  all  this,  I 
feel  that  I  could  tear  the  very  angels  from  heaven  to  grant 
me  what  I  ask." 

"  Oh,  Morna,  I  never  heard  you  talk  so  before.  Oh,  how  sad 
I  am  that  you  feel  so  bad.  Don't  wish  me  happier.  I  feel 
that  1  have  everything  when  I  think  that  I  have  such  a  sister. 
I  thank  God  every  day  for  you,  Morna." 

A  deep  groan  was  the  only  response.  There  was  a  long 
pause,  in  which  I  heard  the  deep,  agonized  breath  of  Morna. 
In  a  few  moments  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  voice  of  the 
child  as  she  read  these  words  : 

"  Now,  no  affliction  for  the  present  seemeth  pleasant,  but  afterwards  it 
worketh  the  peaceable  fruits  of  righteousness." 

"We  want  faith  in  the  'afterwards,'  don't  we,  Morna?" 
asked  the  sweet,  young  voice. 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  what  ./want.  You  have  enough.  But 
God  seems  so  far  off,  the  way  is  so  dark,  and  I  am  so  wicked ; 
but  I  can  pray.  No  one  is  too  wicked  to  pray,"  said  the 
elder  girl. 

I  heard  the  rustling  of  their  robes  as  they  knelt  down,  and 
in  a  moment  I  heard  Morna  say,  in  a  deep,  low  tone : 

"  Oil,  Thou  Great  Eternal !  who  hast  been  sought  after 
through  all  the  ages ;  Thou,  whose  ways  are  past  finding  out, 
who  coverest  Thyself  with  mystery,  as  with  a  garment,  yet 
commandest  Thy  creatures  to  call  Thee  Father ;  help  us  to 
call  Thee  by  that  precious  name ;  help  us  to  believe  that  Thou 
wilt  not  cast  us  utterly  away.  Help  us  to  believe  that  Thou 
wilt  forgive  our  sins,  and  accept  us  for  the  sake  of  Thy  Be 
loved.  We  come  to  Thee  for  light,  for  wisdom,  for  help,  for 
guidance.  We  cry  for  light,  for  our  earthly  way  is  very  dark. 
We  fear  even  the  unseen  hand  which  leads  us,  so  impenetrable 
is  the  gloom  before  us.  Let  Thy  light  shine  in  upon  us  that 
we  may  see  the  way.  Oh,  give  us  wisdom,  that  we  may  shun 
error,  and  know  the  truth.  Oh,  give  us  grace  to  quell  the  wild 
cry  of  our  hearts,  to  stifle  the  great  insatiate  want  which  it  is 
not  Thy  will  to  satisfy.  Give  us  patience,  that  we  rebel  not 


Another  Boarding-House.  131 

against  Thee.  Give  us  patience  to  wait  until  that  which  is  in 
part  shall  be  done  away,  believing  that  we,  at  last,  shall  see 
Thee  face  to  face.  Oh,  give  us  patience,  that  however  bitter 
the  cup  which  the  future  holds  in  her  hands  for  us,  we  may 
drink  it  without  a  murmur,  saying  only  '  even  so,  Father,  for 
it  seemeth  good  in  Thy  sight.'  Oh,  save  us  from  the  faithless 
ness  of  our  own  hearts !  We  know  that  Thou  art  Infinite, 
that  we  are  less  than  atoms  in  Thy  sight.  We  are  abject  in 
our  littleness.  We  magnify  the  greatness  of  Thy  majesty. 
Thou  art  so  far  away,  so  wonderful  in  Thy  glory,  we  some 
times  fear  that  Thou  art  never  mindful  of  us.  Have  pity  on 
us,  oh,  our  Father." 

Her  voice  seemed  overwhelmed  with  the  greatness  of  her 
thought.  The  last  woi'ds  were  almost  inarticulate ;  a  low, 
imploring,  yet  half  despairing  cry,  it  died ;  then  the  voice  of 
Hope  broke  the  stillness ;  sweetly  it  murmured: 

"  Precious  Saviour !  VVe  come  to  Thee  as  little  children, 
because  we  love  Thee.  We  know  that  Thou  art  our  best 
friend,  and  we  love  to  tell  Thee  our  hearts.  We  are  homeless 
lambs,  knocking  at  the  fold  of  the  Good  Sheperd.  Oh,  dear 
Jesus,  let  us  in !  Take  us  out  of  the  cold  ;  carry  us  in  Thy 
bosom,  oh,  our  Saviour!  There  evil  cannot  reach  us;  there  we 
shall  be  carried  white  and  blameless.  We  cast  all  our  care 
upon  Thee  ;  for  Thou  carest  for  u*s.  We  lay  our  burden 
down  at  Thy  feet.  We  know  that  Thou  wilt  lift  us  up,  and 
lead  us  always.  We  know  that  we  are  sinful,  but  Thou  art 
all-saving.  O  Christ!  Thou  hadst  no  earthly  home;  Thou 
hadst  not  where  to  lay  Thy  holy  head.  But  now  Thou  art  in 
Thy  Father's  House.  There,  there  are  many  mansions.  We 
believe  that  Thou  hast  prepared  one  for  us.  Help  us  so  to 
live,  that  with  joy  and  gladness  we  may  behold  Thy  face.  O 
Jesus !  bless  Morna ;  comfort  my  dear,  dear " 

Here  the  gentle  voice  broke  under  its  burden  of  love ;  it 
dissolved  in  tears — such  tears  as  angels  we'ep.  Yet  how  much 
those  prayers  comforted  those  hearts  I  knew  when,  a  few 
moments  after,  broke  upon  the  night  the  wondrous  enchant 
ment  of  their  blended  voices,  singing  low  : 

"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high. 
Save  me ;  oh,  my  Saviour  hide  I 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past, 
Safe  into  Thy  haven  guide, 

Oh,  receive  my  soul  at  last  1 " 


132  Victoire. 

I  buried  my  head  in  my  pillow  and  wept ;  wept  as  the  peace 
of  believing  stole  through  all  my  soul.  It  was  not  more  the 
words  of  that  divine  hymn  than  the  spell  of  low  music  which 
stirred  all  the  depths  of  my  being.  I  had  heard  the  best 
singers  of  the  age,  those  who  were  making  the  melody  of  the 
century,  yet  I  had  listened  to  no  human  voices  which  had 
ever  moved  me  like  these.  The  singers  of  heaven  would  not 
have  seemed  more  alien  to  that  little  room  than  did  these 
sisters.  The  voice  of  Hope  was  sweet  ;  the  voice  of  Morna 
was  more;  it  was  pathos,  it  was  passion,  it  was  power; 
it  was  love,  yearning,  infinite,  breaking  in  floods  of  melody, 
in  low,  impassioned,  imploring  gushes  of  music  over  the  words 
of  the  hymn.  It  awoke  everything  in  me ;  all  that  I  had  ever 
longed  for,  hoped  for ;  lost  sensations,  buried  dreams,  all 
came  thronging  into  my  soul,  while  I  listened  to  that  voice. 
Yet  over  all  fell  the  great  peace.  With  the  music  still  vibrat 
ing  through  my  soul,  I  fell  asleep. 

Why  must  they  dawn  upon  us,  life's  grim,  gray  mornings ! 
Why  must  we  come  from  the  palaces  of  our  dreams,  from  the 
gardens  of  Paradise,  back  to  the  hard  tasks  of  the  grinding 
day  ?  The  night  is  ideal ;  through  her  dusk  aisles  glide  all 
fair  and  visionary  forms  ;  through  her  haunted  halls  troop  all 
fantastic  delights.  It  is  one  of  the  most  painful  of  sensations 
to  pass  from  some  halcyon  dream  of  sleep  into  the  bald 
morning  face  of  a  new,  forbidding  reality.  To  open  our  eyes 
suddenly  upon  disagreeable  surroundings,  to  gaze  around, 
bewildered,  only  to  wake  to  the  utter  consciousness  of  the 
dreaded,  hated,  day-time  task,  which  is  waiting  impatiently  to 
sap  our  energy,  to  drink  the  very  blood  of  youth  and  hope. 
The  light  of  some  mornings,  how  drearily,  how  dreadfully, 
how  appallingly  it  dawns  upon  our  shrinking  senses!  How. 
we  dread  the  day,  how  hateful  is  our  work,  how  we  sigh  for 
the  visions  which  have  just  letl  us!  Not  when  health  and 
hope  are  perfect — -not  then,  do  we  dread  the  morning;  but 
when  we  have  grown  weak  and  weary,  when  we  feel  inade 
quate  for  effort,  when  we  shrink  from  life's  daily  contest, 
asking  only  rest — then  we  dread  the  dawning  day. 

I  shrank  from  the  naked  truth  of  the  next  morning,  as  it  gazed 
stark  upon  me  through  the  gray  light.  Sickness  and  poverty 
had  overtaken  me ;  real  life  had  seized  me.  I  was  their  slave, 
and  must  obey.  I  must  work ;  more,  I  must  go  and  seek 
work.  I  endeavored  to  bring  my  enfeebled  frame  up  to  the 
demands  of  this  thought ;  still  it  moved  languidly,  so  faint 
was  its  diminished  vitality.  How  I  missed  my  accustomed 


Victoire  Goes  to  Work.  133 

pictures  !  How  imploringly  I  looked  into  the  eyes  of  my 
pictured  Christ ! 

As  I  opened  my  door  at  the  call  of  the  breakfast  bell,  I 
encountered  Hope,  just  issuing  through  hers.  How  lovely 
she  looked  !  I  saw  her,  and  felt  a  throb  of  gratitude  that  at 
least  I  had  this  fair  creature  to  irradiate  my  dark  path.  She 
looked  at  me,  and  the  soft  eyes  beamed  and  the  little  hand 
was  outstretched. 

"  I  don't  know  your  name,"  she  said,  "  but  I  am  so  glad 
that  you  have  come.  You  will  comfort  Morna  so  much.  She 
will  love  you,  I  know.  And  your  room  next  to  ours  ?  I 
didn't  know  that.  I  am  glad." 

"  You  say  that  Morna  will  love  me ;  won't  you  a  little  too?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  my  love  isn't  worth  so  much  as  Morna's." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  child.  I  haven't  Morna's  great  soul.  Morna 
garners  all  her  love  for  a  few,  and  such  love!  Mine  couldn't 
be  worth  as  much  to  any  one." 

"I  love  you  and  your  sister  very  much  already." 

"You  do?  how  glad  I  am.  I  must  go  and  tell  Morna.  I 
thought  that  you  would  love  her.  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes 
yesterday.  Oh,  it  made  me  so  happy !  " 

Descending  into  the  sitting  room,  we1  found  Morna  in  the 
very  spot  in  which  she  sat  the  day  before,  her  task  already 
commenced.  The  other  girls  had  descended  to  their  breakfast. 

"  Morna,  this  lady  says  that  she  loves  you,"  said  Hope, 
leading  me  by  the  hand  to  her  sister's  low  chair.  The  dark 
eyes  were  lifted  to  mine  in  one  eager,  questioning,  penetrating 
glance ;  the  great  orbs  grew  dewy,  the  tense  lines  around  the 
mouth  relaxed,  she  stretched  out  her  hand.  "God  has  sent 
you,"  she  murmured. 

Bending  down,  I  kissed  her  forehead.  Hope  held  up  her 
budding  mouth. 

These  kisses  sealed  our  blended  destinies.  In  them  a  new 
epoch  in  three  lives  began. 


VICTOIRE  GOES  TO  WORK. — TRIES  HARD  TO   BE  SENSIBLE. 

I  had  been  dreaming  long  enough.  I  had  been  sneered  at 
for  my  dreams,  too,  that  hurt  me  quite  as  much  as  their  failure. 
After  we  have  persisted  in  our  own  way,  after  we  have  mark 


134  Victoire. 

ed  out  our  own  course  and  pursued  it  in  spite  of  remonstrance 
or  advice  from  others,  after  we  have  chased  our  phantom  and 
failed  to  reach  it,  there  is  no  state  of  mind  more  humiliating 
than  the  consciousness  of  that  failure.  To  know  that  we 
have  failed,  to  know  that  others  know  that  we  have  failed, 
there  is  a  thrust  of  poignant  pain  in  the  thought  to  a  proud 
spirit.  The  words  of  Henri  Rochelle  came  back  to  me :  "  A 
young  girl,  poor,  ignorant  of  the  world,  you  need  a  lawful 
protector."  It  came  back  to  my  memory,  also,  my  lofty  scorn 
ing  of  that  good  man's  love.  Was  I  sorry  ?  No.  I  was 
only  sorry  that  in  that  last  hour  I  had  not  been  a  little  kinder. 
Already  I  had  learned  that  love's  gifts  are  not  so  manifold  that 
we  can  scorn  the  humblest,  albeit  'tis  not  the  one  which  we 
need  and  long  for  most. 

"  I  have  failed."  I  said  these  words  aloud  and  very  slow, 
showing  no  pity  to  my  writhing  heart.  I  felt  no  tender  sym 
pathy,  no  compassion  for  myself.  I  had  failed,  and  the  failure 
was  my  own  fault.  In  what  respect  had  I  shown  any  wisdom  ? 
I  had  not  made  a  single  effort  to  secure  a  paying  employment. 
I  had  sat  in  my  room,  painted  out  a  dream,  spent  all  my 
money ;  now  I  was  penniless ;  worse,  I  was  miserably  in  debt, 
worn,  and  wasted  with  sickness.  Shall  life  be  a  failure  to 
morrow,  and  to-morrow,  because  it  is  a  failure  to-day  ?  Be 
cause  this  hour  is  a  failure,  shall  it  remain  a  failure  to  the 
end  ?  Never !  I  answered. 

Just  then  an  arrow  of  sunlight  flashed  down  the  narrow 
alley-way,  shot  into  the  window  of  my  little  closet  where  I 
stood,  and  quivered  on  the  pearly  crown  of  Orsino's  amulet 
which  hung  upon  my  neck.  The  gray,  foreshading  dawn  had 
deepened  into  a  lustrous  day.  I  had  feared  this  day;  I  had 
quaked  at  the  thought  of  it ;  for  I  knew  that  in  it  I  must  go 
forth  and  seek  kindness  from  the  hearts  of  strangers,  and  I 
dreaded  a  repulse.  Then  the  consciousness  came  to  me 
that  in  all  my  life  I  had  never  dreaded  work ;  I  had  only 
shrunk  from  seeking  it  as  a  boon  from  others.  The  super 
cilious,  inquisitive,  or  insolent  look,  bent  upon  me  because  I 
asked  for  "  work,"  how  could  I  brook  that !  Even  if  work 
were  given  to  me  with  such  a  gaze,  would  it  not  be  like  me 
to  cast  it  down  in  dire  disdain,  even  if  I  knew  that  starvation 
waited  for  me  at  the  door.  Ah,  my  haughty  soul !  to  bend 
it  into  the  cramping  arc  of  its  every  day  action  would  be 
work  enough  for  one  poor  creature !  The  dreaded  day  had 
come,  bland,  benign,  beautiful  it  was.  Its  invisible  finders, 
dipped  in  balm,  beckoned  me  out  into  the  budding  world  to 


Victoire  Goes  to  Work.  13  £ 

meet  success,  yet  I  stood  trembling,  waiting,  trying-  to  gnin 
courage  and  strength  to  go.  Morna  and  Hope  were  toiling 
hard  down  stairs,  their  delicate  lingers  eagerly  flying  to  gain 
upon  their  increased  task ;  trying  so  hard,  so  patiently  with 
those  pretty  fingers  to  earn  the  right  to  live. 

Only  a  few  hours  before  Morna  had  said:  "God  has  sent 
you."  I  would  accept  these  words  as  truth — as  a  blessed 
promise  for  the  future.  I  would  go  and  find  work,  and  come 
with  my  toil,  and  sit  down  by  the  side  of  these  girls,  and  be 
to  them  a  sister. 

I  had  been  standing  in  bonnet  and  mantle  all  this  time,  a 
package  of  small  drawings  and  paintings  lying  on  the  bed  by 
my  side.  I  took  them  in  my  hand,  looked  into  the  face  of 
my  pictured  Christ  with  an  inarticulate  prayer,  and  went  out. 
I  had  resolved  to  seek  employment  as  a  designer,  and  so  took 
a  package  of  my  Paris  sketches  as  specimens.  Thanks  to  the 
philanthropy  which  has  since  opened  a  school  of  design  for 
women,  so  that  designing  and  engraving  are  no  longer  among 
her  mooted  tasks.  Men  are  very  suspicious  of  any  new,  un 
tried  employment  for  woman.  They  are  fearful  lest,  in  some 
way,  it  will  make  her  encroach  upon  their  masculine  preroga 
tives.  They  have  so  long  looked  upon  the  working  sisterhood 
as  dish-washers,  baby-tenders,  shirt-makers,  that  they  have 
learned  to  regard  these  as  the  only  genuine  female  employ 
ments.  They  have  little  faith  that  woman  would  do  any 
other  work  as  well.  But  let  a  woman  go  quietly  to  work, 
without  noise  or  pretension,  to  do  the  thing  which  she  would, 
and  if  it  so  be  that  she  does  it  well,  and  in  a  womanly  way, 
though  it  may  not  be  called  "  woman's  work,"  she  will  find  in 
men  her  warmest  approvers  and  most  generous  friends.  And 
it  is  a  little  odd,  the  man  the  most  bitterly  opposed  to  all 
female  innovation  in  general,  succumbs  with  a  most  suave 
grace  to  Any  such  innovation  in  particular,  if  he  only  like  the 
woman  who,  in  her  pretty  way,  is  doing  her  best  to  widen  a 
little  the  narrow  circle  of  being  which  he  calls  her  "  sphere." 
If  it  is  only  "  my  Nancy  "  or  "  my  Dolly,"  who  wishes  to  do 
the  wondrous  thing,  ah,  that  is  a  different  matter.  "  Dolly 
is  clever,"  "  Nancy  is  a  genius  ;"  "  nothing  should  trammel 
them ;  but  the  stupid  mass,  let  them  walk  in  the  old  beaten 
track,"  says  Mr.  Conservative. 

;  Well,  I  found  it  the  common  opinion  that  it  was  a  great 
leap  out  of  the  common  track  for  a  woman  to  presume  to  be 
a  designer  or  engraver. 

"  You  don't  look  as  if  you  could  carry  a  stidy  hand ;  and  as 


136  Victoire. 

for  that  matter,  I  don't  believe  that  there  is  that  woman 
in  the  world  that  can ;  stidy  enough  to  make  a  good 
pictur." 

"  If  this  is  your  opinion,  I  do  not  wish  to  work  for  you." 
"  Designing  isn't  woman's  work,  anyhow." 
This  was  my  first  trial  in  asking  for  work.     I  left  the  esta 
blishment  without  even  showing  my  specimens. 

In  the  second,  their  "  designers  were  all  men,"  they  politely 
said.  "They  employed  only  the  best  draughtsmen." 

With  a  sinking  heart  and  fainting  steps  I  tottered  towards 
the  door  of  the  third  engraver.  If  I  was  to  be  rebuffed  here, 
I  knew  not  where  else  to  turn. 

"I  would  like  to  find  employment  as  a  designer ;  I  have  a 
few  specimens  to  show  you,"  I  said,  in  a  faltering  voice,  I  fear, 
to  a  pleasant-looking  gentleman,  seated  beside  a  desk  in  a 
cheerful  counting-room. 

He  rose  and  politely  offered  me  a  chair.  Then  opened  the 
package,  took  up  Monsieur  Savonne's  letter  which  lay  on  the 
top.  He  read  it,  and  glanced  from  the  letter  to  me.  "  You 
have  been  ill  ?"  he  asked,  gently. 

I  had  a  splendid  front  of  contempt  wherewith  to  meet 
harshness  or  insolence;  but  at  the  sound  of  these  few  kind 
words  I  felt  all  my  soul  dissolving.  It  was  with  difficulty  I 
answered, 

"  Yes,  very  ill." 

Eagerly  I  watched  his  face,  as  he  looked  over  my  sketches. 
It  grew  more  and  more  pleasant,  I  thought. 

"We  have  not  been  in  the  habit  of  employing  lady  de 
signers  ;  indeed,  to  find  one,  is  very  unusual,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  But  I  am  pleased  with  your  designs  ;  they  are  very  original 
as  well  as  beautiful.  Here  is  a  book  which  you  may  illustrate. 
I  intended  it  for  our  best  artist.  If  you  do  it  satisfactorily, 
and  I  think  that  you  will,"  he  added,  encouragingly,  "  you 
shall  be  paid  all  that  we  would  have  given  him  a  handsome 
remuneration." 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  after  my  agony  of  fear  and  sus 
pense  seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear,  without  an  outward 
demonstration.  I  could  have  kissed  that  man,  who  was  nei 
ther  young  nor  handsome,  and  it  would  have  been  the  holy 
kiss  of  gratitude.  I  could  have  blessed  him  on  my  bended 
knees,  yet  did  nothing  so  remarkable.  I  thanked  him  quietly, 
with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  went  away. 

I  went  back  not  with  the  faltering  step  of  my  coming.  I 
felt  as  if  wings  had  burst  forth  from  my  feet.  I  did  not  walk 


Victoire  Goes  to  Work.  137 

— I  scarcely  touched  the  ground — I  felt  a  sense  of  flying.  I 
opened  the  book  in  the  street,  and  in  an  instant  hundreds  of 
pictures  seemed  to  flash  upon  me,  with  which  I  would  illus 
trate  its  thought.  So  I  returned  to  the  "  comfortable  home," 
and  took  my  place  amid  its  workers. 

Poor  Morna  Avon  dale  !  I  soon  learned  why  she  was  per 
secuted.  Her  tormentors  could  not  forgive  her  superiority. 
Abuse  is  an  involuntary  tribute  which  base  souls  pay  to  great 
natures.  If  she  had  only  felt  insulted,  if  she  had  only  re 
taliated,  they  would  have  enjoyed  at  least  the  variety  of  a 
quarrel.  But  this  calmness,  this  loftiness  of  soul,  this  un- 
uttered  pity,  seemed  to  them  unpardonable.  They  hated  a 
greatness  which  they  could  not  equal,  and  affected  to  despise 
a  nature,  whose  depth  they  could  not  fathom.  Had  she  only 
answered  proudly  and  disdainfully,  she  would  have  seemed 
more  like  one  of  their  own  kind.  But  while  that  classic  head 
was  embossed  upon  the  air  before  them,  while  they  beheld 
that  calm,  broad  brow,  and  met  the  silent  gaze  of  those  spirit- 
searching  eyes,  they  must  feel  that  she  was  the  native  of  a 
loftier  sphere  than  the  one  in  which  they  were  born,  and  that 
she  sat  an  alien  in  the  midst  of  their  low  tribe.  Because  they 
knew  this,  they  hated  her.  True,  Morna  answered  not,  com 
plained  not ;  yet  it  was  this  daily,  petty  persecution,  this  per 
petual  dropping,  which  made  the  ceaseless  friction,  the  change 
less  agony,  which  wore  youth,  and  elasticity,  and  life  away. 
To  have  each  day  the  dreary  counterpart  of  its  predecessor, 
to  sit  through  the  long  hours  cramped  in  one  position,  breath 
ing  a  fetid  atmosphere,  shut  away  from  God's  sunshine  and 
joy-inspiring  air,  was  bad  enough  ;  but  when  to  these  miseries 
was  added  a  stream  of  vulgar  talk,  low  jests,  horse  laughs,  and 
grating  voices  at  times  uttering  words  of  imprecation,  and 
even  of  abuse,  was  to  endure  a  life  which,  at  times  at  least, 
must  have  seemed  intolerable. 

With  only  a  few  exceptions,  these  poor  girls  seemed  not  to 
have  a  hope  or  an  aspiration  above  the  life  which  they  lived. 
They  had  always  drudged,  and  their  mothers  had  drudged  be 
fore  them.  They  had  never  known  any  life  but  that  of  poverty 
in  its  most  grinding  forms.  It  is  not  the  sad  thing  about  such 
a  life  that  it  makes  the  hands  hard  and  the  body  weary  ;  the 
sadness  is,  that  it  steals  from  our  being  its  tender,  beautiful 
bloom  ;  that  it  leaves  no  space  or  time  for  the  spirit  to  grow  ; 
that  it  grinds  existence  down  to  one  sordid  material  want,  and 
encrusts  the  soul  with  selfishness.  To  work,  to  eat,  to  dress 
in  some  cheap  finery,  if  possible  to  find  a  husband  who  would 


138  Victoire. 

deliver  them  from  their  present  bondage  of  body  and  soul  into 
another  as  abject — this  to  these  poor  girls  was  life.  Heaven, 
to  those  who  thought  of  it,  was  a  great  undefinable  space 
which  held  no  "  slop  shops  "  nor  slop  work,  filled  with  people 
who  sang  perpetually  and  enjoyed  a  good  time  generally. 
Selfish,  ignorant,  debased  in  intellect,  in  the  darkened  temple 
of  flesh  the  light  of  the  immortal  burned  dimly  ;  yet  they  were 
hardly  to  blame.  Bread  they  must  have  ;  for  bread  they  lived ; 
and  to  win  simply  what  their  body  needed  they  had  to  sacri 
fice  physical,  mental,  and  spiritual  health. 

The  age  holds  out  lofty  opportunities  for  women  to  win  cul 
ture  and  triumph  in  the  sciences  and  arts ;  and  yet  to  the  great 
mass  of  the  daughters  of  the  poor,  the  drudgery  of  the  kitchen, 
the  wasting  slavery  of  the  "  slop  shop,"  is  all  that  saves  them 
from  starvation  or  shame. 

The  summer  wore  on  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  sitting- 
room  grew  intolerable.  Morna,  Hope,  and  I  took  refuge  in 
our  little  less  intolerable  closets  up  stairs.  By  looking  out 
into  the  alley-way  we  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  blue  ether. 
Besides  I  had  bought  a  white  monthly  rose  and  had  set  it  in  the 
open  window.  Once  in  a  while  a  fragrant  zephyr  would  float 
over  its  odorous  buds  and  lose  itself  unawares  in  the  stifling 
closeness  of  the  little  chamber.  It  was  full  of  vestal  blossoms 
now,  and  although  it  stood  in  the  window  of  a  reeking  alley, 
we  would  bury  our  faces  in  its  fragrant  bloom,  and  think  of 
sunny  gardens  and  wildernesses  of  flowers.  Sometimes  a  sun 
beam  lost  its  way  down  in  the  prisoning  alley  and  would  wan 
der  lovingly  over  Morna's  white  brow,  and  hide  itself  in  the 
depths  of  Hope's  lustrous  hair. 

As  yet  I  knew  nothing  of  these  girls'  history.  I  determined 
to  know  their  story,  and  thought  that  the  best  way  to  find  it 
out  would  be  first  to  tell  my  own.  I  told  them  of  Les  De- 
lices;  pictured  the  mountains,  the  valleys,  the  Rhone;  told  of 
Paris.  Never  was  story-teller  blessed  with  more  appreciative 
listeners.  Hope's  eyes  grew  radiant,  and  Morna's  great  orbs 
became  luminous  with  unspoken  interest. 

"  I  have  told  you  my  story ;  now  tell  me  yours,"  I  said,  one 
purple  summer  twilight,  just  as  Morna  folded  up  the  second 
satin  vest  which  her  delicate  hands  had  fashioned  that  day. 
How  weary  she  looked ;  how  pale  ;  yet  I  thought  not  half  as 
forlorn  as  when  I  first  saw  her  t\vo  months  before.  I  took  her 
hand  in  mine.  I  lifted  up  the  hot  masses  of  hair  from  her  tired 
brow.  I  soothed  it  and  kissed  it.  "  Come,  Morna,  tell  me 
your  story." 


Morna's  Story.  139 

"  My  story  ?"  she  said,  sadly.  "  There  is  no  poetry,  nor 
beauty,  nor  any  story  in  my  story.  It  is  only  one  of  life's 
every -day  tragedies,  Victoire.  That  is  all ;  a  common-place 
tragedy,  and  nothing  more." 

"  Well,  tell  it  ;  do.  I  can't  tell  how  much  I  want  to  know 
how  two  such  flowers  as  you  are  ever  sprung  up  in  such  a 
doleful  spot  as  this  is.  How  you  ever  found  such  a  '  comforta 
ble  home.'  " 

"  I  am  willing  to  tell  you,"  she  said ;  "  but  it  can't  interest 
you.". 

Then  Hope  came  and  took  my  other  hand,  and  laid  her 
beautiful  head  on  my  lap,  as  we  sat  before  the  window,  Morna 
and  I,  the  white  rose  breathing  between  us. 


MORNA'S  STORY. 

"I  can't  begin  by  telling  of  better  days,"  she  said,  "  for  my 
father  and  mother  were  always  poor.  I  can  remember  a  time 
when  we  were  comfortable,  only  comfortable,  and  those  were 
our  best  days.  Then  we  lived  on  the  second  floor  of  a  great 
house  which  had  once  been  grand,  but  now  was  let  in  tene 
ments  because  its  locality  had  ceased  to  be  fashionable.  My 
pleasantest  recollections  linger  about  this  home  in  which  my 
happiest  hours  were  spent.  There  was  one  room  hung  with 
velvet  paper  of  a  rich,  dark  green,  mottled  all  over  with  clus 
ters  of  purple  grapes.  This  was  our  '  best  room.'  Here  the 
table  was  always  set  for  tea ;  here  at  evening  we  awaited  our 
father's  return.  My  mother  knew  how  to  make  everything 
look  pretty;  every  article  in  the  room  was  plain,  but  she  had 
touched  all  with  a  poetic  grace.  I  remember  that  there  was 
a  small  book-case  filled  with  books,  and  that  over  it  hung  a 
picture  of  Raphael.  A  stand  always  stood  by  the  window  fill 
ed  with  geraniums  and  monthly  roses.  Then  there  was  a 
table  covered  with  pretty  books  and  trinkets  ;  my  mother's 
workstand  and  little  cushioned  rocking-chair  and  the  cradle — 
for  we  always  had  a  baby  in  the  house — and  that  is  why  it 
was  never  lonely.  White  curtains  hung  upon  the  windows  ;  a 
bright  carpet  covered  the  floor ;  and  when  the  lamp  was  lit  at 
night  and  the  table  set  for  tea ;  when  the  tea-kettle,  which 
my  mother  kept  as  bright  as  gold,  sang  over  the  glowing 
coals  and  the  tea  urn  filled  the  room  with  fragrance  ;  when 
kitty  purred  on  the  rug,  and  baby  crowed  in  the  cradle ;  when. 


140  Victoire. 

father  came,  the  event  to  which  every  other  event  in  the  day 
pointed  ;  then  it  was  a  pleasant  spot,  the  pleasantest  that  I 
was  ever  in ;  and  I  don't  believe  that  I  shall  ever  see  another 
which  will  seem  so  bright  to  me. 

"  But  you  see,  Victoire,  this  home  of  ours  was  not  much 
like  Les  Delices  ?" 

"  Never  mind,  dear ;  go  on." 

"  At  tea  father  and  mother  had  so  many  pleasant  things  to 
tell  each  other.  After  prayers  and  the  evening  hymn,  mother 
sat  by  the  cradle  and  sewed  ;  father  read  aloud,  and  I  sat  on  a 
low  stool  at  their  feet  and  listened. 

"  My  father  was  a  book-keeper,  and  had  only  a  limited  salary 
to  support  a  large  family.  While  health  remained  he  did  this 
in  comfort,  and,  besides,  saved  a  little.  He  hoped  to  have  enough 
at  last  to  buy  a  cottage  and  garden  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city. 
This  was  his  darling  dream  ;  a  home,  a  sunny  home  all  his 
own,  radiant  with  wife  and  children,  made  the  only  picture  of 
human  joy  on  which  he  cared  to  dwell.  His  natural  capacity 
fitted  him  to  fill  a  much  larger  sphere  than  he  ever  occupied. 
But  from  early  boyhood  he  had  elbowed  his  way  through  the 
world's  crowd  alone.  There  was  no  tender  voice  to  tell  the 
orphan  boy  what  he  might  be,  or  what  good  and  great  things 
he  might  do.  And  at  last  the  sweet  voices  of  desire  within 
him  grew  silent,  because  there  was  no  one  to  listen  or  to  an 
swer.  The  flower  of  genius  unfolded  in  his  soul,  filling  all  the 
air  around  him  with  beauty ;  but  it  never  basked  in  the  sun 
shine  of  ease  or  leisure ;  even  culture  was  denied  it.  So  its 
blossoms  were  scattered  around ;  they  never  ripened  into  fruit 
which  the  world  could  see.  The  world  never  knew  that  this 
flower  filled  all  his  beitig  with  fragrance,  and  to  its  undiscern- 
ing  eye  he  lived  and  died  '  only  a  common  man.'  He  had  a 
passion  for  music  which  he  had  little  time  to  cultivate,  but  he 
played  the  flute  very  sweetly,  and  I  can  feel  now  how  all  his 
soul  used  to  flow  through  its  melody.  Like  most  men,  he  fell 
in  love  too  early,  married,  and  found  himself  bearing  the  bur 
den  of  poverty  and  of  a  family  before  he  had  sounded  the  depths 
or  measured  the  breadth  of  his  own  nature,  or  its  needs.  Still 
I  think  that  he  was  a  happier  and  a  better  man  than  he  would 
have  been  had  he  lived  alone,  a  selfish,  solitary  life,"filled  only 
with  the  dreams  of  ambition. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  more  than  six  years  old  my  father  was 
taken  ill.  You  know  how  ghastly  it  makes  a  home  to  have  a 
father  or  mother  sick.  When  my  father  was  ill,  all  the  light 
in  the  world  seemed  to  go  out.  The  green  sitting  room  was 


Morna's  Story.  141 

darkened,  for  he  lay  in  the  room  adjoining.  The  children 
crept  in  and  out  to  look  at  him  without  a  sound.  I  sat  on  my 
little  stool,  always  in  sight  of  his  bed,  while  my  mother,  pale, 
yet  saintly  in  her  paleness,  sat  by  his  side  through  the  hours 
of  the  night  and  day.  Weeks  rolled  away,  and  he  did  not 
grow  better.  What  the  doctor  called  at  first  a  slow  fever,  at 
last  he  called  consumption.  The  little  hoard  of  savings  was 
fast  being  spent.  My  mother  had  a  triple  burden  laid  upon 
her.  She  nursed  my  father,  took  care  of  her  children,  and  be 
sides  sewed  for  their  support.  No  suffering  called  a  murmur 
to  her  lips,  no  sorrow  could  make  her  forget  that  whom  '  He 
loveth  the  Lord  chasteneth.'  Her  patience,  her  serenity,  her 
hope,  even  then  dawned  upon  me  as  a  mystery.  I  knew  that 
many  times  a  day  she  went  into  a  little  room  to  pray,  but  did 
iiot  know  that  here  she  found  the  secret  talisman  of  power. 
On  this  little  shekinah  the  glory  of  God  rested  ;  here  angels 
fed  her  with  the  bread  which  cometh  down  from  heaven, 
which  sustained  her  in  the  extremity  of  sorrow  and  peril. 
She  took  me  with  her  into  this  little  room,  and  here  I  learned 
how  to  pray.  The  first  impromptu  prayer  my  childish  lips 
ever  uttered  was  for  my  father's  life. .  I  thought  it  so  terrible 
to  die.  I  loved  my  father  so ;  how  I  prayed  that  he  might 
live  ;  how  I  watched  him  and  hung  over  him,  listening  for  his 
breath  !  I  could  scarcely  have  a  more  vivid  conception  now 
of  sickness  and  death  than  I  had  then.  When  I  saw  my 
father  suffer,  when  I  heard  him  cough,  I  would  weep  convul 
sively. 

"  In  such  an  hour  of  sorrow,  Hope  was  born.  She  was 
serene  and  beautiful  from  her  birth,  a  Christ-child.  The  day 
on  which  she  was  born  our  father  died.  She  was  taken  to  his 
bedside,  and  I  remember,  as  he  touched  the  baby  brow  with 
his  wasted  fingers,  kissed  it  with  his  icy  lips,  he  turned  away 
and  groaned.  Alas !  he  knew  that  he  was  dying ;  with  the 
prescience  of  a  spirit,  he  saw  the  future.  I  saw  him  lay  down 
his  head,  and — die.  My  mother  laid  her  face  on  the  baby's 
silken  hair  and  wept  low,  but  as  if  her  heart  was  broken. 
Four  little  children,  I  the  eldest,  went  as  mourners  to  our 
father's  grave.  We  came  back,  and  I  can  feel  now  the  chill 
which  struck  me  as  I  entered  the  deserted  room  and  thought: 
'No  father!  no  father.' 

"  The  ladies  of  the  church  to  which  my  mother  belonged 
came  to  see  her.  One,  celebrated  for  her  profession  of  piety, 
offered  td  take  me  as  assistant  nurse  to  her  own  infant.  She 
told  my  mother  that  she  would  take  good  care  of  me.  There 


142  Victoire. 

seemed  to  be  no  alternative  ;  and  my  mother,  thinking  that  I 
should  have  a  better  home  than  she  could  give  me,  with  re 
luctance  and  tears,  gave  her  consent  to  let  me  go.  I  was 
delicate  and  knew  nothing  of  hardships,  yet  I  was  immediately 
made  a  little  drudge.  I  rocked  the  cradle,  scoured  knives, 
waited  on  the  other  servants,  and  found  myself  a  little  foot 
ball  whom  nobody  thought  too  mean  to  kick.  Yet  I  would 
not  complain,  because  I  thought  of  my  mother.  Although  not 
rich,  my  associations  had  always  been  the  most  refined.  My 
mother  had  guarded  me  assiduously  from  the  coarse  contact 
of  rude  children.  She  and  my  father  had  made  me  a  com 
panion.  I  knew  of  the  books  which  they  had  read  together. 
Already  the  words  of  Milton,  of  Shakspeare,  of  Shelley,  lin 
gered  in  my  childish  brain.  Now  my  society  was  confined 
to  the  kitchen.  I  heard  only  the  tattle  and  slang  which  usually 
make  up  kitchen  talk,  when  the  mistress  is  far  enough  away. 
Yet  doubtless  Mrs.  Dolittle  thought  that  she  did  her  whole 
duty  to  me.  For  on  the  Sabbath  she  dressed  me  in  a  suit  of 
cast  off  garments,  and  sent  me  to  Sabbath-school.  Punctually, 
every  Sunday  morning,  she  said:  "Morna,  have  you  learned 
your  Sabbath-school  lesson  ?"  And  with  this  question  her 
religious  instructions  began  and  ended. 

"  I  was  never  made  for  a  servant ;  yet  here,  for  my  mother's 
sake,  I  submitted  to  the  most  pitiless  tyranny.  It  was  a  hard 
lesson  for  a  young  child.  It  was  hard  to  lug  about,  up  and 
down  stairs,  a  great  lubber  of  a  baby,  till  every  joint  in  my 
poor  little  spine  ached  with  excruciating  pain.  It  was  hard 
to  be  ordered  about  like  a  little  slave  by  the  children  of  Mrs. 
Dolittle.  I  could  not  understand  why  the  little  Dolittle  girls 
should  have  flowers,  and  music,  and  books,  which  they  cared 
nothing  about,  while  I,  who  loved  them  so  very  much,  had 
none.  I  could  not  understand  why  it  was  my  lot  to  wait  upon 
them  ;  why  I  had  to  be  treated  by  them  as  an  inferior,  while 
all  the  time  they  were  coarse  and  rude  to  a  degree  which 
shocked  me  in  every  nerve. 

"  Once  my  feeling  got  the  better  of  my  patience,  and  I  said 
to  Master  Puffer  Dolittle,  who  threw  his  ball  purposely  from 
the  third-story  window,  and  then  ordered  me  to  carry  the 
baby  and  go  after  it,  'I  will  not  do  it;'  .and  to  Miss  Cillie 
Dolittle,  who- exclaimed:  'You  must;  you're  our  servant.' 
I  said :  '  I  am  as  good  as  you,  Miss  Cillie  Dolittle.'  My  inso 
lence  was  immediately  reported,  and  without  delay  I  was 
ordered  into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Dolittle,  who  said  :  '  Morna, 
you  are  a  saucy  little  thing ;  a  little  impertinent,  wicked  huzzy. 


Morna's  Story.  143 

I  would  send  you  straight  out  of  the  house,  if  it  were  not  for 
your  poor  mother,  who  has  had  so  much  trouble.  (She  forgot 
that  she  was  getting  out  of  me  the  work  of  a  large  servant 
without  the  trouble  of  paying  wages  for  it.)  Yes,  you  are  a 
wicked  little  huzzy.  How  dare  you  say  that  you  are  as  good 
as  my  daughter,  Miss  Dolittle  ?' 

"  '  Because,  ma'am,  I  think  that  I  am.' 

"  '  You  do,  d-o  you !  I'll  teach  you  w-h-a-t  you  are !'  she 
said,  fiercely  shaking  me  and  slapping  me  without  mercy.  e  I 
will  teach  you  better.  You  belong  to  a  different  class  of 
beings.  Your  father  lived  and  died  a  poor  man.  Mr.  Dolittle 
is  worth  half  a  million.  Never,  never  let  me  hear  such  words 
come  from  your  mouth.  How  dare  you  compare  yourself 
with  my  daughters,  the  Misses  Dolittle  ?' 

"In  all  that  great  house,  there  was  no  one  to  speak  tenderly 
to  the  fatherless  child,  or  to  give  her  young,  yearning  heart 
one  drop  of  the  sweet  affection  which  it  so  hopelessly  craved. 
The  hardest  thing  to  bear  was  a  basket  filled  with  refuse 
food,  which  I  was  ordered  to  carry  to  my  mother.  Then 
I  was  filled  with  humiliation,  shame,  and  rage.  I  remember 
when  fairly  outside  of  the  gate,  I  set  down  the  basket,  or 
rather  it  fell  from  my  trembling  hand.  Then  I  shook  my 
little  fist  at  the  iron  railing,  and  cried : 

"  '  I  hate  you,  Mrs.  Dolittle  ;  I  hate  you.  You  are  not  half 
a?  good  as  my  mother ;  you  are  not  half  as  beautiful ;  yet 
you  send  victuals  to  her  that,  you  would  not  eat.  When  you 
die,  I  hope  that  the  old  de\il  will  get  you,  Mrs.  Dolittle.' 

"Of  course  this  rage  was  very  impotent  and  slightly 
wicked,  not  at  all  in  accordance  with  the  Sabbath-school  lesson 
which  I  learned  every  Sunday.  It  was  also  very  natural  and 
very  genuine. 

"  I  endured  martyrdom  with  Mrs.  Dolittle  until  I  was  twelve 
years  old.  Then  I  implored  my  mother  to  take  me  home  and 
allow  me  to  help  her.  By  sewing  all  day  and  most  of  the 
night,  she  managed  to  support  herself  and  her  four  children. 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  she  loved  everything  beautiful ;  to  be 
surrounded  by  beauty  had  once  been  a  necessity  of  her 
being ;  but  now  she  only  looked  at  narrow,  naked  walls,  on 
bare  floors,  and  wretched  furniture ;  the  green  room,  all 
flushed  with  purple  grapes,  fragrant  with  roses  and  geraniums, 
and  bright  with  home's  happy,  loving  faces,  had  gone.  So  had 
gone  the  old  bloom  from  my  mother's  cheeks.  Her  eyes  were 
too  bright,  and  every  vein  showed  in  her  white  forehead  and 
hands,  But  she  never  complained  ;  and  when  I,  in  my  rebel- 


144  Victoire. 

lion,  would  say :  *  Mother,  why  is  it  ?  God  docs  not  seem 
kind,'  she  would  always  answer,  'What  we  cannot  know 
now  we  shall  know  hereafter.  My  child,  I  am  \villing  to 
wait.' 

"The  cholera  broke  out  in  the  city.  It  raged  fearfully  in 
our  locality.  I  could  not  look  out  without  seeing  the  hearse 
or  the  dead  cart  piled  with  ghastly,  purple  bodies.  Men  fell 
dead  on  the  pavements.  The  streets  grew  silent,  almost 
deserted.  The  gloom  was  awful.  Close  confinement,  bad 
air,  poor  food  made  us  eai-ly  victims.  Grace,  Neddie,  and  Bel 
sickened  first;  then  our  mother,  then  Hope,  then  I.  We 
could  do  nothing  for  each  other,  only  when  our  agony  would 
let  us,  we  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  They — yes,  I  can 
say  it — they  died.  Hope  and  I  still  lived.  Men  came  to  carry 
them  away,  to  throw  them  all  together  into  the  dead  cart, 
into  one  grave.  I  wept,  I  implored.  I  clung  to  the  men's 
feet,  I  covered  them  with  my  tears,  beseeching  with  gasping 
breath  that  they  would  leave  me  my  mother.  Useless  was  my 
woe.  They  tore  her  body  away  from  me  ;  they  took  them  all, 
took  them  to  the  dead  cart,  threw  them  with  a  thousand  others 
into  one  vast  hole  in  Potter's  Field.  My  mother  buried  like  that. 
I  never  could  find  my  mother's  grave.  That  hers  was  such  an 
end,  that  she,  who  had  the  nature  of  a  seraph,  should  be  buried 
like  a  beast,  is  the  one  thing  in  life  to  which  I  know  not  how 
to  be  reconciled.  She  should  have  been  dressed  in  spotless 
robes.  Soft  hands  should  have  folded  those  tresses,  laid 
those  lily  hands  on  that  lovely  bosom.  Flowers  should  have 
been  laid  in  her  coffin,  a  hymn  should  have  been  sung  at  her 
grave,  and  a  voice  should  have  cried,  as  they  laid  her  softly 
down  upon  my  father's  breast :  '  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the 
Life.'  But  no ;  they  buried  her  as  they  bury  brutes — my 
mother. 

"Victoire,  you  see  my  life  began  to  wither  early;  it  grew 
bitter ;  it  grew  hateful.  I  wished  only  to  die.  I  prayed  for 
annihilation.  I  wanted  to  forget,  and  yet  I  lived  and  remem 
bered.  God's  angels  were  abroad  as  well  as  His  pestilence. 
Tender-eyed  women  walked  unharmed  amid  the  plague. 
They  came  to  the  wretched  chamber  where  I  lay  almost 
lifeless.  They  warmed  and  nourished  and  nursed  me. 
Hope  nestled  in  my  bosom,  and  for  her  sake  I  became  willing 
to  live. 

"The  great  wave  of  death  rolled  by.  Health  and  activity 
came  back  to  the  city.  I  had  something  to  do.  Hope  was  to 
be  educated  at  all  hazards;  I,  if  possible.  My  father  had  <le- 


Morna's  Story. 

*  , 

signed  to  have  given  me  a  finished  education  had  he  lived. 
Now  what  I  obtained  must  be  earned  by  my  needle.  I  excelled 
in  my  trade,  and  obtained  the  best  work  which  the  shops 
afforded.  Still  the  wages  were  so  small,  it  seemed  almost 
hopeless  to  lay  by  enough  to  pay  for  a  teacher.  You  know 
nothing  about  such  a  struggle,  Victoire.  Men  who  grind  a 
woman's  wages  down  to  the  most  miserable  pittance  know 
nothing  about  it.  We  hear  a  great  deal  about  self-made, 
self-educated  men.  Self-educated  women,  1  suppose,  are  rarer. 
I  only  wonder  that  there  are  any ;  that  all  who  try,  unaided, 
alone,  to  earn  a  thorough  education,  are  not  dead  before  their 
object  is  gained.  Only  they  who  try  know  how  wasting,  how 
killing  it  is,  with  the  point  of  a  needle,  to  purchase  food,  cloth 
ing,  and  education.  It  is  stitch,  stitch,  stitch,  till  the  last  drop 
of  vitality  is  stitched  away  for  a  most  meagre  pittance.  Then 
where  is  the  time,  the  strength,  the  power,  the  freshness  of 
mental  vigor  needed  for  study  ?  Nature  will  be  avenged ; 
the  body  must  rest  or  die.  As  women  are  paid,  it  is  all  a 
woman  ought  to  try  to  do  to  earn  her  food  and  clothing  with 
a  needle.  But  thousands  are  trying  to  earn  the  means  to  buy 
culture,  and  to  fit  themselves  for  nobler  spheres  of  action.  The 
women  of  this  country  are  pervaded  with  the  intense,  intel 
lectual  life  of  their  age  and  race ;  they  pant  to  know,  to  do,  to 
be,  yet  loving  women  still,  with  all  their  mental  and  moral 
hunger.  To  thousands  Fate  holds  out  a  needle,  saying: 
'  Know,  do,  be,  if  you  can.'  How  they  strive,  how  they  live, 
how  they  die !  their  wants  unuttered  and  unsatisfied,  I  know 
and  feel.  How  the  young  heart  faints,  how  the  young  hands 
grow  weary,  how  the  sweet  eyes  close  in  sleep  and  long-for 
getting  ere  the  dreary  task  is  half  accomplished,  alas,  I 
know! 

"  Well,  we  denied  ourselves  of  all  save  the  barest  necessa 
ries  of  life  in  order  to  save  a  little  money." 

"  You  mean  that  you  did,  dear  Morna ;  you  never  denied 
me  anything,"  interrupted  Hope. 

"  After  my  daily  task  was  done,  by  taking  a  few  hours  from 
sleep  I  managed  to  study  arithmetic,  algebra,  and 'at  last 
geometry.  I  began  the  Latin  grammar  besides.  I  drew 
books  from  the  city  library,  which  I  read  on  Sunday.  Hope 
went  to  the  public  school,  and,  besides,  took  music  lessons. 
The  desire  to  take  lessons  on  the  piano  myself  became  almost 
a  fever.  My  whole  nature  wept  for  expression.  My  bound 
soul  moaned  to  assert  itself  to  give  some  utterance  to  its  own 
life  of  thought,  of  emotion,  of  suffering.  I  thought  that  in 

7 


146 


Victoire. 


music  I  could  embody  all  that  I  ever  dreamed,  or  felt,  or  con 
ceived.  At  last,  at  last,  by  pinching  still  closer  my  scanty 
wardrobe,  I  had  money  enough  saved  to  pay  for  a  course  of 
lessons.  I  went  to  a  noted  teacher ;  I  was  determined  not  to 
be  taught  by  a  second-rate  artist.  Of  course  his  terms  were 
high,  yet  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  which  only  those  who 
have  had  a  like  experience  could  ever  imagine,  I  laid  my  dear 
won  earnings  in  his  hand,  a  full  equivalent  for  all  I  asked  in 
return ;  then  sat  down  and  received  my  first  lessons  in  the 
art  which  has  since  become  the  passion  of  my  life. 

"  My  teacher  was  a  German  gentleman,  well  trained  in 
German  University  lore,  who,  as  many  Germans  do,  had  given 
up  his  life  to  the  science  of  music.  He  was  a  large,  handsome 
man,  in  the  depth  of  whose  dark  eyes  seemed  always  to  burn 
a  low,  lurid  fire ;  yet  how  kindly  they  looked  on  me.  He  was 
thirty,  perhaps '  I  was  seventeen,  as  life  is  measured.  I  knew 
nothing  of  men.  The  only  ones  whom  I  knew  well  enough 
to  speak  to  were  my  employers,  who  gave  me  work  and  paid 
me  for  it  as  I  went  and  came.  My  teacher's  voice  was  low 
and  seductively  sweet  when  he  spoke  to  me;  very  unlike  the 
sharp,  metallic  tones  of  my  employer.  It  was  only  natural 
that  I  should  prefer  the  former.  It  was  only  natural  that  its 
music  fell  pleasantly  upon  my  cold,  void  ear,  and  soothingly 
on  my  aching  heart,  which  from  my  mother's  death  seemed  to 
have  lain  in  my  breast  in  a  half  dead  slumber,  conscious  only 
of  a  nameless,  never  ceasing  ache.  Well,  it  was  only  natural 
that  this  new  voice,  so  full  of  music,  should  stir  my  sleeping 
heart,  and,  in  an  indefinable  way,  awaken  its  long-hushed  in 
stincts.  I  knew  nothing  of  analysing  emotions  then.  I  only 
felt,  without  the  consciousness  of  knowledge,  that  mine  were 
pleasant  when  I  listened  to  that  voice.  He  was  very  kind  to 
me,  this  teacher  of  mine,  and  to  some  natures  there  is  nothing 
so  dangerous  as  a  subtle,  delicate  kindness  ;  they  have  thirsted 
for  it  so  long  and  so  hopelessly,  that,  when  they  taste  the  first 
draught,  they  are  intoxicated  with  its  sweetness. 

"  Nothing  could  have  been  more  grateful  to  me  than  his 
manner,  never  oppressive,  never  intrusive,  full  of  that  gentle, 
chivalric  deference,  expressed  in  looks,  tones,  and  actions, 
rather  than  words,  which  belongs  only  to  men  of  the  finest 
intuitions,  who  have  sounded  the  depths  of  the  womanly 
nature.  Though  I  could  only  come  for  my  lesson  when  my 
day's  task  was  completed,  in  the  twilight  before  I  began  my 
evening  work;  though  I  always  came  unattended;  though  he 
must  have  known  by  my  dress  that  I  was  very  poor;  he  never 


Morna's  Story.  147 

took  the  slightest  advantage  of  this  knowledge.  He  asked  no 
questions,  not  even  the  common  ones,  which  most  men  who 
claim  to  be  gentlemen  would  have  asked  ;  no,  he  annoyed  me 
in  no  way.  Had  I  been  the  fairest  and  most  favored  lady  in 
the  land,  he  could  not  have  treated  me  with  more  respectful 
consideration.  * 

"  But  I  was  shy  and  silent.  Nowhere  else  did  I  feel  quite 
so  awkward,  or  quite  so  shabby,  or  quite  so  insignificant,  as 
in  his  presence.  He  seemed  so  grand,  so  far  removed  from 
me,  both  by  his  acquirements,  his  genius,  and  his  position. 
When  I  looked  at  him,  all  that  was  common,  and  miserable, 
and  painful  in  my  own  lot  crowded  into  my  mind,  and  I  grew 
oppressed,  and  wretched,  and  miserably  embarrassed,  until 
his  gentle  riant  grace  put  me  unconsciously  at  my  ease.  I 
saw  my  folly  in  bringing  myself  in  personal  contact  with  one 
between  whose  lot  and  my  own  existed  so  great  a  disparity. 
Then  I  consoled  myself  by  saying:  'He  will  soon  give  me  all 
the  lessons  that  I  can  pay  for ;  then  I  shall  go  my  miserable 
way,  and  he  will  trouble  me  no  more.'  He  lived  in  a  hand 
some  house,  full  of  rich  furniture,  pictures,  books,  and  music ; 
sometimes  I  found  in  the  room  two  beautiful  children,  which 
the  nurse  would  carry  away  when  I  came-;  sometimes  a  fair- 
haired  lady  passed  me  in  the  hall ;  his  wife,  I  thought. 

"  He  was  not  long  in  discovering  my  passion  for  music.  I 
learned  rapidly.  When  my  fingers  touched  the  keys  I  felt 
inspired.  After  much  urging,  at  last  I  ventured  to  let  him, 
hear  my  voice.  '  You  will  make  a  great  singer,'  he  ex 
claimed.  '  Thousands  will  melt  into  tears  at  the  sound  of 
your  voice.  Why  have  you  not  let  me  hear  it  before  ?'  My 
whole  soul  rose  in,  tumult  at  his  words.  After  that  I  sang 
every  day.  After  the  lesson  he  would  play  and  sing  some 
favorite  air  of  mine,  unasked.  Sometimes  the  dusk  stole 
down,  unnoticed,  and  found  me  still  listening,  entranced,  lost. 
Then  he  would  kindly  offer  to  accompany  me  to  my  home. 
But  I  always  refused.  I  vowed  that  he  should  never  see  my 
home. 

"  He  lent  me  books.  He  offered  to  teach  me  German,  that 
I  might  read  Goethe,  and  Schiller,  and  Klopstock  in  their  ori 
ginals.  This  was  impossible.  To  study  German  I  must  relin 
quish  music.  Yet  I  read  the  books  which  he  lent  me — the 
philosophers  of  Germany  ;  at  last,  the  philosophers  of  France. 
My  whole  nature  protested  against  much  of  their  philosophy. 
I  told  rny  teacher  this.  He  smiled.  '  I  wanted  your  opinion,' 
he  said.  '  I  would  not  ask  you  to  believe  them.'  He  must 


148 


Victoire. 


have  seen  that  my  susceptibility  to  music  amounted  to  weak 
ness.  With  all  my  love  I  was  afraid  of  it ;  it  moved  me  so 
much.  He  played  for  me  the  music  which  melted  me — the 
music  which  filled  my  soul  with  dew.  At  last  I  could  not 
think  of  him  in  distinction  from  his  music.  The  airs  which 
toe  played  and  sang  floated  through  my  being  during  all  the 
nights  and  days.  His  music  magnetized  me,  and  in  this  way 
he  won  a  power  over  me. 

"  One  afternoon  I  came,  weary  and  dispirited.  Nearly  all 
the  previous  night  I  had  sat  up  and  sewed  in  order  to  win  the 
hours  for  my  lesson.  My  overtasked  nerves  were  in  the 
relaxed  condition  which  made  me  most  susceptible  to  every 
external  influence.  Besides,  I  was  sad'and  sick  at  heart.  My 
course  of  lessons  was  almost  completed.  I  had  not  half  enough 
to  pay  for  another.  How  could  I  live  without  music  now  ? 

"  I  went  through  with  my  usual  lesson.  Then  he  played 
for  me  one  of  Beethoven's  most  melting  symphonies.  Physi 
cally  too  weak  to  restrain  my  emotion,  I  buried  my  face  in  my 
hands  and  wept,  wept  silently,  yet  it  was  the  weeping  of  de 
spair.  He  ceased.  He  rose  from  the  piano  and  came  to  me. 
He  laid  his  hand  soothingly  on  my  forehead,  laid  back  the 
heavy  hair,  and  said  that  nothing  could  grieve  him  more  than 
to  see  grief  in  me.  No  sorrow  could  come  to  me  that  would 
not  be  his.  He  only  asked  the  privilege  of  soothing  it  away. 
He  sat  down  and  took  my  hand.  From  the  beginning  he  had 
grown  gentler  and  gentler  in  his  manner  towards  me,  but 
never  had  he  spoken  in  the  tones  of  seductive  tenderness 
which  he  uttered  now. 

"'There  were  souls  made  for  each  other,'  he  said,  'destined 
from  the  hour  of  their  mortal  birth  to  be  the  consolation  and 
joy  of  each  other.  There  was  no  human  law  which  could 
separate  such  souls.  The  law  of  nature  was  the  law  of  God, 
and  that  law  demanded  that  they  should  live  for  each  other. 
He  was  willing,  yea,  he  could  not  help,  but  live  for  me.  Was 
he  wrong  in  believing  that  I  would  live  for  him  ?  From  the 
first  moment  that  he  looked  into  my  eyes  he  saw  that  my  soul 
answered  to  his.  Besides,  I  came  to  him  in  dreams.  I  was 
inwoven  with  all  his  music.  I  filled  all  his  thought ;  I  was 
enshrined  in  his  heart.  Had  he  not  a  place  in  mine  ?  My 
beautiful  soul  was  an  alien  in  the  cruel  world  ;  it  needed  a  sweet 
spot  to  rest  in  ;  my  nature  was  too  fine  to  be  jostled  by  the 
rude  crowd ;  it  would  wound  me  in  a  thousand  ways  at  every 
turn.  A  cruel  fate  had  defrauded  me  of  all  that  my  nature 
most  craved.  My  life  should  be  filled  with  beauty.^  If 


Morna's  Story.  149 

my  soul  could  only  grow  in  the  divine  atmosphere  of  love,  I 
would  learn  to  sing  sweeter  than  ever  the  angels  sang.  More 
tkan  everything  else,  I  needed  love,  and  cherishing,  and  house 
hold  joy.  Would  I  not  let  him  give  them  to  me  ?  He  would 
give  rne  a  home  filled  with  all  beauty,  and  he  desired  no  return 
but  my  love  and  my  presence.' 

"  My  face  lay  hidden  on  my  arm,  which  was  flung  over  the 
back  of  my  chair,  when  he  came  and  sat  down  by  my  side 
and  took  so  gently  my  other  hand.  At  first  I  was  only  con 
scious  of  the  sound  of  his  voice  penetrating  me  with  its  music. 
Then  I  became  conscious  that  he  was  offering  me  sympathy ; 
then  I  grew  confused..  What  did  he  mean?  Then  like  light 
ning  his  meaning  flashed  upon  me. 

"  I  lifted  my  face.  I  said :  '  I  wept  at  your  music,  for  I  was 
weary  and  sick,  and  it  answered  the  moan  of  my  heart.  But 
because  I  weep,  why  should  you  come  and  offer  me  love,  and 
cherishing,  and  household  joy — you  who  have  no  right 
to  bestow  them?  Do  I  understand  you?  Are  you  not 
married  ?' 

"  '  Married !  yes,  I  am  married,  as  the  world  goes,'  he  said; 
'  but  that  is  no  reason  why  I  may  not  love  and  protect  you, 
whom  I  love  more  than  any  other  woman  upon  earth.  Morna, 
Hove  you? 

"  He  had  never  spoken  my  name  before.  Now  he  uttered 
it,  and  the  words  which  came  after  in  a  low,  slow,  distinct 
tone,  whose  music,  rippling  over  every  syllable,  thrilled  through 
my  heart. 

"  To  a  nature  all  hungry  for  affection,  there  is  no  sound  in 
all  the  universe  so  seductive  in  its  sweetness  as  the  words, 
'  I  love  you.'  Independent  of  the  soul  which  breathes  them, 
there  is  an  abstract  deliciousness  in  the  simple  thought.  No 
lips  had  ever  uttered  these  words  to  me  since  my  mother 
died ;  there  were  none  in  all  the  world  to  love  me  now  but  little 
Hope.  As  this  utterance  sank  into  my  soul,  for  an  instant  the 
thought  came  to  me  that,  if  I  were  his  wife,  hallowed  and 
cherished,  standing  by  his  side  in  this  my  home — so  beautiful, 
so  full  of  melody — what  a  different  place  the  world  would 
seem ;  then  how  happy  it  would  make  me  to  hear  the  words, 
*  I  love  you.'  But  quick  after  this  thought  came  the  damning 
one  that  now  uttered  to  me ;  this  declaration  was  an  insult  to 
all  that  was  holy  in  my  womanhood.  And  the  consciousness 
of  a  great  wrong  done  to  me  sank  like  a  stone  through  its 
ocean  of  tears,  down,  down,  till  it  pressed  hard  and  cold  the 
bottom,  of  my  bruised  heart. 


150  Victoire. 

"I  was  too  weak  and  worn  to  turn  in  proud  indignation  ; 
my  exhausted  veins  did  not  overflow  with  the  proud  vitality 
which  scintillates  flashing  and  defying  rage.  If  we  are  pricked 
and  hurt,  we  can  turn  with  a  splendid  ire  upon  our  tormentor ; 
but  if  paralysed  by  a  mortal  wound,  we  can  writhe  and  die  in 
silence  under  the  hand  which  smites  us.  I  felt  wounded 
through  all  my  soul.  '  You  have  done  me  a  great  wrong,' 
was  all  that  I  said,  and  I  rose  to  depart.  '  Do  you  refuse  my 
love  ?'  he  asked,  and  now  his  accent  was  as  eager  as  before 
it  had  been  slow. 

" '  You  have  no  right  to  love  me,  or  to  ask  for  my  love,' 
I  said. 

"  This  man  had  charmed  me  with  the  wondrous  melody  of 
his  voice  ;  there  was  a  magnetism  in  his  presence,  a  fascination 
in  his  surroundings,  to  me,  so  alone  and  so  far  below  him. 
But  I  did  not  need  affection  so  much,  that  I  could  even  ima 
gine  the  possibility  of  joy  ever  flowing  from  an  unhallowed  and 
unlawful  passion. 

"'I  have  a  right  to  love  all  that  is  lovely,'  he  said;  'for 
this  reason  I  love  you.  I  acknowledge  no  God  but  Reason. 
This  God  assures  me  that  it  will  be  a  greater  act  of  mercy  to 
give  to  a  heart  fainting  for  air,  and  sunshine,  and  song,  the 
life  which  it  needs,  than  to  leave  it  to  stifle  and  perish 
alone.  Why  not  submit  with  a  flood  of  sunny  tears,  like  a 
dear  child,  saying  to  me  the  truth — "  I  will  let  you  love  me, 
because  I  am  very  much  in  need  of  being  loved." ' 

"  Still  I  was  passing  quietly  towards  the  door,  my  heart  all 
the  while  filled  with  a  nameless  terror. 

" '  Do  you  think  to  escape  me,  you  slender  thing?'  he  said, 
confronting  me.  The  music  in  his  voice  was  dead.  It  trem 
bled  with  rage  as  well  as  passion. 

"I  lifted  my  eyes  to  his;  the  low  smouldering  fire  had 
burst  into  a  flame.  I  saw  it  and  loathed  him,  and  forgot  that 
to  me  he  had  ever  been  gentle,  or  tender,  or  winning. 

"  '  Stay !'  he  exclaimed,  and  his  hand  seized  my  shoulder  like 
a  vice.  I  uttered  a  faint  cry,  half  from  terror,  half  from  pain. 

"'Hush!'  he  said,  with  an  alarmed  look  at  the  closed  fold 
ing  door.  '  Be  quiet !  you  should  not  have  enraged  me. 
Have  I  not  ever  been  gentle  and  kind  to  you?'  he  murmured, 
in  the  old  tone. 

"It  was  too  late.  He  had  over-estimated  his  power.  It 
was  his  music  that  I  loved  after  all ;  its  charm  broken,  he  had 
no  spell  wherewith  to  allure  me.  I  had  reached  the  door,  1 
tried  to  open  it ;  to  my  dismay  I  found  it  locked.  I  hurried 


Morna's  Story.  151 

to  the  window — I  would  have  leaped  from  it,  but  he  stood 
before  it.  Before  I  knew  it,  a  piercing  cry,  born  of  terror, 
burst  from  my  lips,  which  to  me  seemed  to  penetrate  heaven. 
I  don't  believe  that  he  thought  me  capable  of  uttering  such  a 
Bound ;  he  thought  that  I  would  not  dare  to  make  a  noise. 
He  rushed  towards  me  in  guilty  fear,  at  the  sound  of  approach 
ing  feet.  My  cry  had  been  heard.  He  opened  the  door, 
he  thrust  me  forth,  and  with  no  gentle  hand. 

"  I  had  nearly  reached  the  hall  dooi-,  when  I  heard  a  voice 
on  the  stairs  exclaim — 'For  heaven's  sake,  Carl,  what  is  the 
matter  ?'  *  Nothing  dear,  except  that  an  insane  girl  screamed. 
One  of  my  scholars  has  gone  music-mad,  that  is  all.'  *  Well,  I 
hope  you'll  prevent  her  coming  here  again,  if  she  is  going  to 
scream  like  that.  I  thought  some  one  was  being  murdered.' 

"This  conversation  I  heard  as  I  rushed  towards  the  door. 
I  fled  from  the  house  as  for  my  life.  I  turned  neither  to  right 
nor  left.  I  relaxed  not  my  steps  till  I  knelt  by  the  little  bed 
where  Hope  lay  smiling  in  her  sleep. 

"  I  crept  back  to  myself ;  my  heart  coiled  up  within  itself, 
wounded,  ready  to  die.  I  had  been  stabbed  through  my  one 
joy.  -Music  to  me  was  holy.  Yet  the  one  who  was  blended 
with  music  in  all  my  thought,  was  the  only  being  who  had 
ever  attempted  my  ruin.  I  doubted  all  men.  I  feared  them. 
I  fled  from  their  presence.  I  even  doubted  God.  I  called 
upon  Him  only  for  my  mother's  sake.  I  wept,  I  tried  to  be 
lieve.  But  all  my  nature  seemed  so  cold  and  dead.  Still  that 
heavy  sense  of  wrong  seemed  to  press  like  a  stone  against  the 
bruised  fibres  of  my  heart. 

"  The  infidel  books  which  he  had  given  me  to  read  had  left 
in  my  soul  a  few  drops  of  their  subtle  poison.  Mystic  philoso 
phies  and  ideal  theories  of  matter  and  mind,  of  God  and  His 
universe,  would  at  times  usurp  the  place  of  Christ  and  the 
Bible.  Yet  not  always ;  there  were  hours  when  I  clung  to 
both  as  my  dearest  hope.  One  blessed  lesson  my  last  sorrow 
had  taught  me.  I  had  learned  how  full  of  peril  was  the  life 
of  a  young  girl  cast  alone  and  friendless  into  a  great  city.  I 
saw  how,  through  their  human  need  of  sympathy  and  a  little 
love,  they  are  sometimes  led  on  to  fall.  With  infinite  love 
and  infinite  trust,  at  last  they  yield  to  one  who  makes  them 
the  idol  of  an  idle  hour,  only  to  weary  of  them,  and  cast  them 
off  at  last,  discrowned  of  youth  and  honor,  to  live  a  life  of 
shame  or  to  die  '  one  more  unfortunate.'  Had  my  woman's 
heart  been  a  little  more  importunate  for  love,  my  moral  sense 
a  little  less  fearful  of  sin,  might  not  I  have  been  cast  out  like 


l  ^2  Victoire. 

them,  when  my  hour  of  charming  had  gone  by  ?  What  but 
the  tender  care  of  the  merciful  God  had  kept  me  from  being 
one  of  them  ? 

"I  no  longer  sought  a  knowledge  of  music.  I  sought 
nothing  for  myself— I  cared  only  to  educate  Hope.  It  was 
Hope  who  kept  alive  the  little  light  of  faith  in  my  heart." 

"  Oh,  no ;  it  was  God's  spirit,  Morna,"  said  Hope. 

"Well,  it  was  God's  spirit,  speaking  through  you.  You 
helped  me  to  believe.  So  the  years  have  crawled  away, 
each  the  dreary  counterpart  of  the  other.  My  heart  has  re 
mained  mute  and  unstirred  ever  since.  Oh !  it  is  a  dreadful 
thing  to  feel  Faith  lying  in  your  breast,  dead,  dead. 

"  But  a  change  came  with  you,  Victoire.  The  first  moment 
I  saw  you,  I  felt  that  God  had  sent  you.  My  heart  is  coming 
to  life  again.  Faith  may  yet  blossom  like  the  rose. 

"  This  is  all.  Now  you  will  believe  me,  Victoire,  that  my 
story  is  as  commonplace  as  it  is  wretched." 
"  And  Morna  bent  her  head  and  touched  her  lips  to  the 
white  rose,  blooming  between  us.  A  just  opening  rose.  1 
gathered  and  laid  it  in  her  bosom ;  then  I  culled  another,  a 
folded  bud,  unsullied  as  falling  snow,  and  hid  it  in  the  meshes 
of  Hope's  purpling  hair. 


MORNA,     HOPE,     AND     VICTOIRE     LEAVE      THE     "COMFORTABLE 
HOME." 

It  is  the  lot  of  some  never  to  be  positively  happy ;  their 
nearest  approach  to  it  is  resignation.  They  are  ever  resigned, 
but  never  glad.  These  are  the  beings  who  think  profoundly, 
feel  acutely,  whose  discerning,  spiritual  eye  penetrates  the 
abyss  of  the  pas£  and  of  the  future.  Their  mental  and  moral 
faculties  are  broader  and  farther  reaching,  their  sensibilities 
more  acutely  strung,  more  keenly  alive,  than  those  belonging 
to  beings  cast  in  a  commoner  mould.  They  seem  to  hear  all 
things,  see  all  things,  feel  all  things,  suffer  all  things.  And 
this  soul,  to  whom  is  given  such  power  to  see,  and  feeT,  and 
comprehend,  dwelling  as  it  does  in  the  bosom  of  unrevealed 
mystery,  shrinks  back  sad  and  baffled,  bearing  upon  its  heart 
too  great  a  burden  of  profound  thought  to  be  ever  lightly  gay. 
This  soul  encircles  all  things ;  it  turns  in  sadness  from  the  un-1 
solved  problem  of  the  physical  universe,  to  muse  and  marvel 
over  the  phenomena  of  man ;  upon  the  prospects  and  possi- 


Leaving  the  "  Comfortable  Home."         1 53 

bilities,  upon  the  being  and  destiny  of  the  imprisoned  and  alien 
soul,  which  for  a  little  time  sojourns  in  fleshly  tabernacles. 
Vainly  it  asks  science  and  philosophy  to  explain.  Height  and 
depth  say :  "  Not  in  us."  "  The  universe  of  stars  is  cold,  and 
dead,  and  tongueless,"  and  they  exclaim,  as  Pascal  exclaimed : 
"The  eternal  silence  of  the  infinite  spaces  affrights  me." 

To  such  a  soul  religion  can  be  the  only  comforter.  Happy 
is  it  if  it  receives  this  divine  consoler.  She  says  :  "  Now  thou 
art  embosomed  in  mystery,  but  in  the  hereafter  thou  shalt 
understand."  If  it  can  only  lean  upon  the  bosom  of  faith,  the 
great  soul  is  content  to  wait  amid  the  blended  harmony  and 
discord  of  this  transient  life,  until  the  glass  which  reveals 
darkly  shall  be  removed.  Then  it  knows  that  it  shall  "  see 
eye  to  eye"  with  the  Father  of  all  mystery  and  of  all  know 
ledge.  Such  a  soul  had  Morna — a  soul  that  needed  more  than 
all  things  else  an  unwavering  trust  in  the  Infinite  Power 
which  overrules  our  destinies.  Yet  that  which  she  needed 
most  seemed  often  to  elude,  to  shift  far  away  from  her.  Her 
nature  seemed  to  have  but  one  lack,  and  that  was  faith ; 
she  questioned  all  things.  She  wanted  to  solve  the  problem 
of  her  own  existence.  Why  had  her  Lord  sent  her  into  the 
world  to  suffer,  and  yet  to  make  no  sign  ?  Why  was  her  soul 
surcharged  with  silent  and  smothered  power,  which  yet  had 
no  adequate  expression  ?  Why  must  her  soul  devour  itself, 
because  it  had  no  outlet?  Hungering  for  wisdom,  beauty, 
love,  why  must  her  life  be  one  long,  unuttered  want  ?  Why 
must  she  for  ever  stifle  so  much  that  was  loveliest  in  her  ? 
She  asked  these  questions  aloud  but  once,  that  first  night  in 
the  little  chamber.  She  never  complained,  or  said:  "I  wish 
my  lot  were  different."  Yet  I  had  only  to  know  what  she 
was,  to  know  also  what  she  suffered. 

But  as  the  long,  hot,  weary  days  dragged  by,  giving  no 
rest  from  toil,  no  ease  from  care,  to  those  delicate  hands  and 
tried  young  hearts,  I  could  not  help  but  ask  sometimes — Why 
is  it  ?  As  they  sat  before  me,  hour  after  hour,  through  the 
long  days  and  longer  weeks,  those  young  and  gifted  creatures, 
stitching  the  very  bloom  and  beauty  of  their  being  into  the 
uncouth  garments,  for  whose  fashioning  they  received  scarcely 
enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together,  I  could  not  help  say 
ing — Why  is  it  ?  Why  so  often  are  the  obtuse  and  vulgar,  who 
know  only  low  material  wants,  garlanded  with  the  world's 
rarest  beauty,  while  to  such  souls  as  these,  fitted  by  their 
ethereal  organism  to  enjoy  all  eclectic  blessings,  life  is  measured, 
or  rather  stinted,  narrow,  meagre,  and  hateful — a  taunting  and 

7* 


1 54  Victoire. 

unsatisfying  portion?  Why?  I  asked.  And  yet  while  asking 
the  question,  looking  into  the  soul-face  of  Morna,  and  the 
serene,  sunny  eyes  of  Hope,  an  assurance  always  arose  beyond 
it,  a  faith  in  their  happy  destiny.  The  Power  which  rules 
us  is  just  and  loving.  And  though  in  the  infinite  cycles  of 
God's  thought,  our  little  times  and  seasons  are  as  naught,  and 
though  we  may  wait  until  we  have  counted  the  last  link  in 
that  brief  piece  of  eternal  duration  which  we  name  life,  yet 
every  soul  at  last  receives  its  heritage.  And  though  now 
Morna  and  Hope  sat  in  the  shadow  waiting  and  longing,  I 
believed  that  God's  sunshine  would  cover  them  at  last,  and 
that  their  beautiful  souls  were  the  guarantee  of  their  coming 
beautiful  soul-portion. 

Who  came  to  see  me  one  day  but  Kate. 

"  A  purty  place  this,  for  the  like  of  ye !"  she  exclaimed, 
looking  about  in  great  disdain. 

"  It  is  good  enough,  Kate,  till  I  can  afford  a  better." 

"  It's  a  burnin'  shame  for  the  like  of  ye  to  be  here.  Indade 
an'  it's  mesel  that  would  have  a  gran'er  house  than  this.  I'm 
afther  thinkiu'  it's  very  shabby." 

"  Never  mind,  Kate,  when  I  get  a  grand  house,  you  shall 
come  and  live  with  me,  and  do  just  as  you  please,  and  stay  as 
long  as  you  live,  if  you  want  to." 

"  Indade !" 

Kate  spoke  in  a  very  incredulous  tone,  as  if  she  had  very 
small  faith  in  my  ability  to  obtain  a  grand  house. 

"  If  you  don't  get  married,  Kate,  I  hope  that  I  can  take 
care  of  you  some  time,  and  make  your  life  very  easy  and 
pleasant." 

"  The  vargin  !  what  wild  talk.  As  if  I  couldn't  take  care 
of  raesel,  and  ye  too,  a  hape  better  nor  ye  can  take  care  of 
yoursel.  I  think  that  I'm  afther  seein'  how  ye  take  care  of 
yoursel."  And  again  she  looked  around  the  sitting-room  of 
the  "  comfortable  home  "  with  an  air  of  disgust.  "  Not  even 
a  soffy  in  the  room  for  ye  to  rest  your  poor  back  on  ;  a  purty 
place  for  the  like  of  ye." 

"It's  good  enough  and  to  spare!  I'd  like  to  know  if 
Miss  Victory  is  made  of  better  stuff  than  other  flesh  and 
blood  ?"  called  out  Nance  Jones,  who,  as  usual,  overheard. 

"  It's  good  enough  for  ye,  and  too  good  !  ye  freckle-faced 
spalpeen,  but  it  haint  good  enough  for  Xer,  now  let  me  tell  ye ; 
ami  ye  know  it." 

I  coaxed  Kate  to  ascend  to  my  little  chamber  with  all  ex 
pedition.  I  would  as  soon  have  seen  two  wild  cats  come  to- 


Leaving  the  "Comfortable  Home."          155 

gether  as  to  have  watched  two  such  belligerent  natures  as 
Nance  Jones  and  Kate  Murphy  enter  upon  a  war  of  words, 
which  in  all  likelihood  would  have  ended  in  a  tearing  of  eyes 
and  pulling  of  hair. 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon,  and  Kate  went  with  me  to  show 
me  the  spot  where  my  poor  Nannette  rested  in  the  Catholic 
cemetery  across  the  river.  It  was  a  sheltered  and  quiet  nook. 
No  ruthless  feet  had  profaned  the  spot,  since  they  had  laid 
her  kind  old  head  to  sleep  on  its  clay-cold  pillow  ;  yes,  it  was 
a  peaceful  and  lovely  spot.  My  first  spare  earnings  paid  for 
her  grave-stone,  and  the  bland  sun  of  September  smiled  softly 
on  the  simple  marble  tablet  which  rose  to  the  memory  of 
Nannette,  my  dear  bonne. 

I  found  my  employer  all  that  he  appeared  at  first;  a 
generous  and  noble  man.  He  criticized  kindly,  and  com 
mended  wisely  (which  is  rarely  done),  and  encouraged,  al 
ways  by  giving  me  good  work  and  good  wages.  Already  I 
was  blessed  beyond  my  improvident  deservings,  and  began 
to  taste  the  sweets  of  that  noble  independence  which  flows 
from  a  knowledge  of  having  earned  what  you  enjoy,  from 
the  consciousness  of  labor  conscientiously  performed  and 
generously  requited.  Already  my  enfeebled  pulses  began  to 
thrill  with  something  akin  to  their  old  exultation. 

The  redemption  of  my  pictures  was  the  first  object  to  be 
gained,  and  the  early  autumn  saw  one  hundred  dollars  in  the 
bank  saved  for  that  purpose.  By  the  coining  spring  I  hoped 
to  pay  the  last  cent  due  to  Mrs.  Skinher.  To  do  this  I  knew 
that  I  must  deny  myself  of  all  superfluities.  I  felt  resigned 
to  any  privation,  except  that  of  spending  the  winter  at  the 
"  comfortable  home." 

"  Girls  !  I  have  thought  of  a  new  plan,"  I  said  one  day  to 
Morna  and  Hope. 

Both  pairs  of  eyes  were  turned  upon  me  with  wonder. 

"  There  is  no  need  of  our  living  here.  We  can  hire  two 
rooms,  and  go  and  keep  house  together.  We  can  sleep  in 
our  own  bed,  eat  at  our  own  table,  and  be  as  independent  and 
happy  as  we  please,  and  it  will  cost  no  more  than  to  stay 
here." 

"  Oh !  it  would  seem  like  a  story  in  a  book,"  said  Hope, 
hanging  around  my  neck. 

"  It  seems  too  pleasant  ever  to  be  true,"  sighed  Morna. 

But  it  did  come  true.  We  rented  two  small  rooms  on  the 
second  floor  of  a  tenement  house,  in  a  respectable,  but,  of 
course,  very  unfashionable  street.  Barren  they  looked  to  the 


156  Victoire. 

eye,  with  their  naked  walls  and  bare  floors ;  but  to  us  they 
geemed  a  very  Eden,  into  which  no  serpent  could  ever  enter. 
No,  nor  a  Nancy  Jones,  to  jeer  and  abuse ;  no  discord,  no 
ungeniality,  nobody  but  three  girls,  all  differing,  yet  each  very 
much  in  love  with  the  other. 

What  a  shabby  little  room  it  was.  I  scarcely  thought  of 
it  then,  but  am  fully  aware  of  the  fact  now.  It  was  such  a 
relief  to  get  away  from  the  "  comfortable  home,"  from  its  un- 
genial  air,  from  its  coarse  surroundings,  and  to  find  ourselves 
in  a  little  nook  all  our  own.  Why,  as  we  looked  around  it, 
we  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  criticizing  Paradise  if  we 
had  suddenly  found  ourselves  transported  to  its  shelter  of 
beauty.  I  had  not  forgotten  that  once  I  had  been  surrounded 
by  the  appliances  of  an  easeful  and  elegant  home ;  but  that 
time  seemed  so  far  away,  I  had  long  ceased  to  compare  it 
with  my  present,  or  to  measure  the  worth  of  what  I  had 
once  possessed.  I  compared  the  little  room  with  nothing 
gone  before,  but  loved  it  as  a  present  home,  and  with  a  thank 
ful  heart  came  into  it  as  to  a  blessed  refuge.  Its  walls  were 
only  whitewashed  walls ;  they  could  not  have  looked  more 
blank  and  chilly  than  they  did.  Yet  we  did  not  see  it.  A 
few  frameless  sketches  had  taken  the  place  of  my  old  idols, 
with  their  softening  glass  and  massive,  golden-fretted  mould 
ings.  The  rigid  white  curtains  on  the  windows  cast  no  rosy 
glow,  no  attempering  shadow  on  the  staring  faces  of  my  now 
pictures.  There  were  no  voluminous  folds  of  gold  and  crim 
son  damask,  no  floating  waves  of  misty  lace  to  be  gathered 
into  sculptured  holders  ;  but  unrelenting  in  their  stiff  severity 
these  white  curtains  fell  over  the  high  narrow  windows.  Ar 
tistic  eyes  saw  that  they  lacked  all  dreamy  grace,  yet  the 
satisfied  heart  suggested  no  improvement.  A  cheap  yet  neat 
carpet  covered  the  floor ;  a  single  table,  a  few  chairs,  an 
easel,  a  book-case,  and  a  cooking-range  hid  behind  the  fire 
screen,  completed  the  appointments  of  the  new  home.  I  for 
get — the  white  rose  tree  stood  in  the  window. 
,4  There  was  an  ask-no-more  look  in  Hope's  eyes,  and  a  world 
of  content  in  Morna's,  as  we  sat  down  to  our  first  breakfast. 
A  simple  breakfast,  yet  to  us  how  delicious  were  its  warm, 
delicate  rolls,  its  fresh  egg  omelet,  the  fragrant  amber-crystal 
coffee  !  How  refreshing  to  our  eyes  was  the  unsullied  table 
cloth,  the  pure  white  ware,  free  from  a  single  flaw. 

"  All  our  own  !  Only  think  of  it,  girls ;  all  this  belongs  to 
Avondale  and  Company !"  And  I  looked  around  with  pro 
bably  an  absurdly  satisfied  expression. 


Leaving  the  "Comfortable  Home."          157 

A  tear  glistened  on  Hope's  long  eye-lashes  ;  it  fell,  a  star  of 
dew  on  the  rose  leaves  of  her  cheeks,  with  a  quick  warm 
shower  of  dew-stars  pattering  after. 

"  I  can't  help  it ;  I  am  so  happy,"  she  said,  dashing  them 
away  with  her  little  white  hand. 

"  How  beautiful  everything  is  !  How  good  God  is !  Oh  ! 
I  am  so  happy !"  And  the  sunlit  shower  fell  faster.  She 
thought  to  hide  its  brightness  within  the  shadow  of  her  exu 
berant  curls,  but  failed.  Then  not  knowing  what  else  to 
do,  she  plunged  her  beautiful  head  first  in  Morna's  lap,  then 
in  mine.  "  Would  we  forgive  her  for  being  so  foolish  ?  She 
couldn't  help  it ;  indeed  she  could  not." 

We  were  kissing  our  pet  into  assurance,  telling  her  that  she 
was  the  silliest  little  puss  that  ever  did  live,  and  we  loved  her 
the  better  for  it,  when  we  were  interrupted  by  a  hard,  plump 
knock  on  the  door. 

I  arose  and  opened  it,  and  found  standing  before  me  in  the 
narrow  hall,  an  odd-looking  boy  with  a  teacup  in  his  hand. 
He  might  have  been  twelve  years  old,  and  what  was  unusual 
enough  for  a  city  boy,  was  nearly  as  broad  as  he  was  long. 
His  torn  pantaloons  were  held  up  by  one  very  imperious  sus 
pender,  leaving  his  feet  far  in  the  rear ;  and  very  odd  feet  they 
were.  One  was  clothed  in  a  lady's  gaiter,  so  much  too  long 
that  the  toe  stood  perpendicularly  in  the  air,  while  the  other 
wore  a  most  stubbed  and  pugnacious  boot.  He  had  on  a 
coat  which,  in  the  variety  of  its  many  colors,  outvied  the 
famous  garment  of  the  patriarch  Joseph.  Its  innumerable 
round  holes  and  zigzag  tears  were  filled  Avith  bits  of  bright 
red  and  yellow  flannel,  and  darned  down  on  strips  of  varie 
gated  ribbon,  or  glaring  calico,  till  it  seemed  slashed  with  the 
hues  of  the  rainbow.  In  the  mending  of  this  coat,  a  luxu 
riant  imagination  had  evidently  exhausted  itself.  The'same 
glowing  and  unchastened  fancy,  which  excites  feminine  fingers 
to  sew  together  innumerable  bright  little  rags  until  they 
grow  into  "Rising  Suns"  and  "Star  of  Bethlehem"  patch 
work  quilts,  destined  to  shed  their  effulgence  over  sweltering 
feather  beds~and  snoring  men  and  women  in  the  pine-box 
houses  of  the  rural  districts. 

The  head  which  surmounted  this  coat  was  as  unique  as  the 
garment  itself.  Rebellious,  self-asserting  hair  stood  erect  from 
the  low,  square  forehead  in  the  most  impudent  and  obstinate 
fashion.  The  eyes,  like  two  very  black  and  very  shiny  but 
tons,  twinkled  far  back  in  a  bed  of  fat ;  but  the  nose  was  the 
oddest  of  all — such  a  pug !  The  berry  on  the  end  of  it  red 


i58 


Victoire. 


as  a  cherry.  Huge  cheeks  and  a  great,  grinning  mouth,  full 
of  white  teeth,  completed  the  boy. 

"  Please,  ma'am,"  he  began. 

"  Well,  little  boy,  what  will  you  have  ?" 

"  Please,  ma'am." 

"  Well ;  please  what  ?" 

"  Please,  ma'am,  will  you  lend  my  mamm  half  a  cup  o'  sugar  ?" 

"  Who  is  mamm  ?" 

*'  She's  my  mamm." 

"  But  what  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Her  name  is  mamm." 

"  She  must  have  another  name." 

"  That's  all  the  name  I  know  on.  I  calls  her  mamm.  Dad 
calls  her  mamm.  The  young  'uns  call  her  mamm,  all  but 
Glory  Ann — she  can't  talk  straight,  and  calls  her  murn." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  George  Washington  Peacock." 

"  Then,  little  boy,  your  mother's  name  is  Mrs.  Peacock." 

"  I  don't  care  a  darn  if  it  is.  I  know  that  she  is  my  mamm, 
and  that's  'nuff  for  me,  I  reckon." 

"  You  shouldn't  swear.    Don't  you  know  that  it  is  wicked  ?" 

"Mamm  sez  it's  wicked ;  but  I'd  jest  as  soon  be  wicked  as 
good.  What's  the  difference  ?  Hang  it  if  I  see  any  !  Them 
what  I've  hearn  called  good  are  wus  than  t'other ;  meaner 
enuff  sight.  There's  old  Pharisee  Pomp — he's  prayin'  wher 
ever  anybody'll  listen — he's  good,  I  s'pose ;  but  he'll  skin  a 
chap  alive  and  sell  his  skin  for  sixpence.  There's  Lazarus 
Lorn,  is  allers  doin'  a  feller  a  good  turn,  but  he's  wicked.  He 
gits  drunk.  I'd  rather  be  wicked." 

"  You  don't  mean  you  would  rather  get  drunk  ?" 

"  I  likes  to  take  my  tip ;  of  course  I  does.  What's  a  young 
man  gwine  to  do  when  t'other  young  man  sez — '  Take  a 
treat  ?' " 

"Say  no." 

"  I  sez  yes.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'm  gwine  to  do  without  my 
tip  for  all  the  wimens  in  creation." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"Up  stairs.  Where  do  you  s'pose  I  hailed  from  ?  Mamm 
said  :  'Give  my  compliments  to  the  lady,  and  say  please, 
ma'am,  mamm  wouldn't  begin  to  neighbor  so  soon,  but  she 
must  have  some  sugar  in  her  tea.  I'll  send  it  down  when  dad 
brings  some  hum.'  Darn  it,  I  can't  think  of  the  rest. 
Mamin's  speeches  are  so  all-fired  long." 

"  You  are  welcome  to  the  sugar ;  but  please  say  no  more 


Leaving  the  "Comfortable  Home."         159 

bad  words  ;  we  don't  like  to  hear  them,"  I  said,  taking  his 
empty  cup. 

By  this  time  Morna  stood  beside  me,  her  eyes  overflowing 
with  smiling  wonder,  while  in  the  rear  Hope  was  doing  her 
best  to  suppress  her  gurgling  laughter,  not  at  his  vulgar 
words,  but  at  the  unmitigated  oddness  of  his  looks.  In  a 
moment  more  we  heard  the  stamp  of  the  masculine  boot 
blending  with  the  flapping  of  the  feminine  long-toed  gaiter  as 
cending  the  stairs  below  the  newly-filled  cup  of  sugar. 

"  Here  is  missionary  work  for  you,  Hope,"  I  said,  as  we 
went  back  to  our  seat.  "  You  needn't  go  outside  the  house 
to  find  a  heathen." 

"  I  will  try  to  coax  him  to  go  to  Sabbath-school  with  me 
next  Sunday,"  she  said. 

Ever  to  be  remembered  is  that  first  day  spent  in  our  little 
hired  home — the  first  day  of  our  maiden  housekeeping.  Birds 
under  their  leafy  domes,  in  their  summer  nests,  out  in  the 
free  sunny  air,  never  warbled  with  more  delicious  abandon 
than  did  Morna  and  Hope  over  their  work.  Hope's  voice 
was  just .  like  a  bird's,  dilating,  in  its  liquid  sweetness ; 
quivering  with  a  thousand  jubilant  trills,  it  was  the  spon 
taneous  outgushing  of  a  heart  surcharged  with  melody.  Mor- 
na's  voice — my  hand  trembles  as  I  write  of  it,  so  sensibly 
does  its  marvellous  refrain  surge  back  upon  my  soul,  till  all 
my  being  thrills  once  more  as  it  thrilled  to  her  symphonies  in 
those  years  long  gone.  Her  voice  was  a  soul,  pouring  into 
the  ear  of  the  Infinite,  in  wild  and  wondrous  music,  all  the 
impassioned  and  immortal  longing  which  a  soul  may  feel,  yet 
never  tell  in  spoken  or  in  rhythmed  words/  Her  voice  was 
worship — one  of  those  rare  voices  which  we  sometimes  hear 
floating  apart  from  all  the  others  through  the  reverential 
atmosphere  of  a  country  church,  till  we  forget  its  prosaic  sur 
roundings,  its  commonplace  faces,  its  tedious  prayers  and 
stupid  sermons,  while  we  tremble  in  rapt  exaltation  to  the 
grand  surges  of  triumphal  praise,  to  the  melting  cadence  of 
supplication,  all  vibrant  with  adoring  love.  Hers  was  one  of 
those  wondrous  voices  which  flood  with  their  marvellous 
melody  the  dusk  arches  of  solemn  minsters,  which  dilate 
through  the  forest-like  aisles  of  old  cathedrals,  till  the  loftiest 
embrasure  of  gorgeous  glass,  till  stony  niche  and  moresque 
alcove,  are  permeated  with  its  efiluence  of  symphony  ;  while  a 
thousand  reverent  hearts,  melted  by  its  shivers  of  sweet 
sound,  weep  in  silent  rapture,  or  rise  upon  its  impalpable 
pinions  of  harmony  to  the  far-off,  unimagined  audience-cham- 


1 60  Victoire. 

ber  of  Deity.  Hope's  voice  filled  me  with  gladness,  but 
Morna's  with  a  haunting  and  vague  unrest.  The  voice  of 
Hope  was  full  of  joy,  of'life's  attainable  joy,  which  may  be 
possessed  in  this  world  by  every  healthful  nature.  Delicious 
in  itself,  it  suggested  nothing  sweeter  beyond  it.  I  listened, 
and  thought  of  Hope  in  her  budding  bloom  as  the  loveliest  of 
mortal  creatures ;  I  loved  Morna's  voice  for  what  it  made  me 
desire,  for  what  it  made  me  forget,  and  for  what  it  made  me 
remember.  But  it  never  made  me  happy,  for  it  always  hinted 
at  the  unattainable.  It  suggested  something  which  in  all  my 
human  life  I  had  not  found,  and  might  never  find.  Some 
thing  I  knew  not  what,  yet  it  seemed  a  possible  bliss,  of 
which,  in  my  common  moods,  floating  along  the  low  level  of 
daily  life,  it  entered  not  into  my  dead  soul  to  conceive. 
Morna's  voice  made  it  a  palpable,  throbbing  verity.  \Yhy 
might  it  not  be  mine  ?  Why  need  I  wait  to  find  it  in  the 
far  distant  ages — this  happiness  so  dim,  so  shadowy,  so  tar 
away !  Her  voice  filled  me  with  love,  and  worship,  and  long 
ing  ;  it  made  me  feel  capable  of  all  suffering  and  of  all  joy  ; 
but  alas,  even  its  beautiful,  unattainable  bliss  seemed  embo 
somed  in  sorrow  ;  the  voice  itself  seemed  dissolving  in  melo 
dious  tears,  so  that  while  I  listened  I  often  wept,  yet  knew 
not  wherefore. 

Certainly  on  this  day  Morna  did  not  think  to  make  me 
weep,  for  her  mood  was  a  nearer  approach  to  happiness  than 
I  had  ever  seen  in  her  before,  and  her  voice,  as  it  rose  and 
fell,  floating  far  away,  was  wild  and  sweet  as  nature's  own  ; 
not  when  it  wails  on  desolate  shores,  or  trails  its  moaning 
dirges  across  forsaken  seas,  or  chants  its  melancholy  anthems 
through  the  chill  aisles  of  naked  woods,  but  when  it  sings 
itself  to  rest  on  the  palpitant  hearts  of  deep-bosomed  trees, 
or  distils  its  dreamy  music  over  gardens  of  imperishable 
bloom  in  the  trance  of  summer  noons  or  the  golden  calm  of 
balmy  summer  nights.  Thus  she  sang  on  this  day  ;  yet  I 
remember,  as  I  sat  apart  with  my  face  turned  towards  the 
window,  that  the  sunlight  might  fall  upon  the  task  before  me 
as  I  worked  and  listened,  the  tears  fell  too  upon  the  white 
card  on  which  I  was  sketching.  I  have  forgotten  whether  I 
chided  myself  for  weakness  or  not ;  if  I  did  it  would  have 
made  no  difference.  My  proud  vitality  of  strength  was 
broken  ;  the  strong,  calm  nerves  sickness  had  weakened.  I 
was  much  more  easily  moved  by  all  things  than  I  had  once 
been ;  had  grown  more  womanly,  men  would  say.  Still 
there  was  no  morbid  misery  in  the  few  tears  which  blotted 


r 

Our  New  Neighbor,  Mrs.  Peacock.         161 

my  white  task,  and  it  was  a  happy,  a  very  happy  day  this,  the 
first  in  our  new  home. 

The  day-time  work  was  done,  the  simple  tea  ended,  and 
we  sat  in  the  twilight,  the  purple  gloaming  ;  that  mystic 
hour  when  day  is  departing  and  night  has  not  come ;  when 
curtains,  furniture,  pictures,  are  revealed  to  us  in  violet  light 
or  crimson  shadow ;  when  the  misty  room  seems  peopled 
with  dreamy  phantoms  ;  when  books  are  a  mockery  and  work 
a  shame — that  hour  which  should  be  consecrated  to  sacred 
converse  or  delicious  thought.  Well,  in  that  hour  we  sat  and 
talked — talked  as  girls  will,  not  wisely  of  course ;  had  we 
talked  wisely  we  should  not  have  been  girls,  but  time-taught 
women,  which  we  were  not  then  quite. 

Already  we  had  grown  self-indulgent.  Morna  and  Hope 
took  an  hour  from  each  evening  to  study  French,  and  I — well, 
I  had  begun  their  portraits,  and  to  this  dear  task  also  was 
given  an  hour,  which  shone  like  a  star  between  the  day  and 
night-time  tasks.  We  were  talking  of  them,  and  of  what  we 
were  "  going  to  do,"  or  be,  some  time  in  the  marvellous  future, 
when  there  came  another  knock  on  our  door,  a  softer,  a  more 
lingering  knock  than  had  startled  us  in  the  morning.  This 
time  Morna  responded  to  the  call,  and  opening  the  door  ush 
ered  in  a  great  woman,  who  had  a  pleasant,  sailing  motion,  like 
a  full  freighted  ship.  She  carried  a  teacup  in  her  hand,  and 
announced  herself  as  "Mrs.  Peacock,  ladies." 


OUR  NEW  NEIGHBOR,  MRS.  PEACOCK. 

We  asked  Mrs.  Peacock  to  be  seated,  and  looked  with  a 
slight  feeling  of  wonder  into  the  face  of  George  Washington's 
"  mamm."  She  began  :  "  Ladies,  I  have  brought  back  your  cup 
o'  sugar.  I  hope  George  Washington  asked  for  it  with  per- 
liteness.  I  doz  my  best  to  make  him  perlite,  but  'taint  of 
much  use.  George  Washington's  diiferent  from  all  the  rest 
of  my  children.  I've  a  beautiful  family  of  children  ;  you 
must  come  up  and  see  'em  ;  but  as»I  was  saying,  George  Wash 
ington  aint  like  none  of  the  rest.  I'm  sorry  to  say  he's  marked. 
Yet  I  have  all  a  mother's  feelings  for  George  Washington. 
I've  had  more  trouble  with  him  than  with  all  the  other  nine 
together ;  'deed  they  aint  no  trouble.  Oh !  you  must  come  up 
and  see  little  Serepty  Louizy.  But  as  I  was  say  in',  George 
Washington  makes  me  worlds  of  trouble ;  me  nor  Mr.  Peacock 


162  Victoire. 

can't  do  nothin'  with  him.  If  I  could  move  out  of  New  York 
I'd  have  some  hopes  of  his  outgrowin'  his  swearin',  but  now 
'taint  no  use,  for  George  Washington  will  run  the  streets  and 
sell  newspapers.  He's  a  good  boy  in  one  particler — he  does 
keep  his  mother  in  newspapers  and  new  books.  1  s'pose  you 
wouldn't  think  it,  ladies,  that  with  so  many  children,  I'd  have 
much  tifne  to  read,  but  I  does — 'deed  I  can  say,  next  to  ten- 
din'  baby,  readin'  is  my  life.  I've  a  great  taste  for  literatur' ; 
but  that's  not  strange,  for  I  belong  to  the  Greens  of  Green- 
town  ;  I'm  Serepty  Ann  Green  that  was.  My  family's  the  most 
haristocratic  in  the  county.  I  tell  you  what,  there  aiut  none 
that  stand  afore  the  Greens  of  Greentown.  You  should  see 
my  father's  country  seat.  Oh,  it's  beautiful !  I  allus  takes  my 
family  into  the  country  in  the  summer  (she  added  with  an  air 
of  consequence)  ;  of  course  all  genteel  people  go  into  the  coun 
try.  I  have  to  leave  Mr.  Peacock — business  always  detains 
him  in  the  city,  poor  dear ;  but  I  take  the  rest  of  my  family  all 
but  George  Washington,  he  stays  with  his  father ;  but  all  the 
other  nine.  I  should  die  if  I  couldn't  go  to  my  father's  coun 
try  seat  every  summer.  You  see  I  pine  for  my  native  air. 
I've  hearn  that  people's  early  surroundin's  makes  a  difference 
in  their  disposition.  I  expect  that's  why  I'm  romantic,  be. 
cause  I  was  brought  up  in  such  a  romantic  place  as  my  father's 
country  seat.  And  as  I  was  tellin',  I'm  crazy  for  literatur' ; 
if  I'd  only  got  my  hand  into  it,  I  could  write  a  novel  as  well 
as  any  on  'em.  'Deed  I've  serious  thoughts  of  tryin'  it,  if  it 
wasn't  for  holdin'  Serepty  Louizy  so  much,  I  would.  Of 
course  I  could  do  it.  I  might  as  well  be  makin'  money  writin' 
books  as  other  women.  I  knows  my  novel  would  take,  'cause 
I'd  make  the  weddin's  'ponderate.  They  must  have  a  dread 
ful  time  gittin'  each  other,  but  you  must  marry  them  at  last; 
that's  the  way  to  make  a  good  novel,  one  that'll  sell.  Folks 
don't  want  to  read  about  funerals.  But  my  heroine  should 
marry  for  love ;  of  course  she  should.  I  married  for  love  my 
self.  I,  Serepty  Green  that  was,  married  a  poor  man.  My 
father  discarded  me,  and  threatened  to  cut  me  off  without  a 
cent,  but  I  married  for  love ;  and  if  I  were  to  git  married  a 
thousand  times,  I'd  always  marry  for  love.  There  aint  noth 
in'  else  wuth  gittin'  married  for ;  mark  my  words,  young  ladies, 
there  aint  nothin'  in  the  world  wuth  marryin'  for,  but  love  ;  of 
course  there  aint ;  mark  my  words." 

Here  Mrs.  Peacock  took  breath,  an  act,  however,  which 
seemed  entirely  unnecessary.  For  she  could  talk  the  longest, 
without  stopping,  of  any  woman  that  I  ever  saw  before  or  since. 


Our  New  Neighbor,  Mrs.  Peacock.         163 

Emerson  thinks  that  two  are  necessary  to  the  carrying  on  of 
a  perfect  conversation.  Mrs.  Peacock  thought  one  all-suffi 
cient.  She  never  demanded  a  reply — but  the  more  listeners 
she  had,  the  better. 

"  Well,"  she  went  on,  "I've  come  down  to  'gratulate  myself 
and  you  on  havin'  good  neighbors.  You'll  find  me  a  good 
neighbor,  an  excellent  neighbor.  I  prides  myself  on  bein'  a 
good  neighbor.  I  am  allers  ready  to  ask  a  good  turn,  and  I'm 
allers  ready  to  do  a  good  turn ;  that's  what  I  call  bein'  a  good 
neighbor.  Besides,  I  give  nobody  a  chance  to  feel  neglected. 
I'm  allers  glad  to  make  a  friendly  call ;  that's  what  I  call  bein' 
a  good  neighbor.  And  I  'gratulate  myself  that  at  last  I've 
got  some  ladies  to  be  a  good  neighbor  to.  As  I  married  below 
my  station,  I've  had  to  neighbor  with  some  very  common  sort 
of  folks ;  but  I  tell  you  I  never  for  a  minute  forgot  that  I  was 
Serepty  Ann  Green  that  was,  or  that  Mrs.  Serepty  Ann  Green 
Peacock  I  am.  I  thought  I'd  bring  back  the  .cup  o'  sugar,  and 
apologize  tl^it  George  Washington  wasn't  more  perlite.  I 
listened  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  know  that  he  might  a 
done  better;  he  will  say  bad  words — but  you  see  he's  marked  ; 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  the  poor  child.  I  think  he'll 
outgrow  it.  Besides,  I  came  down  to  tell  you,  ladies,  that 
you'll  find  in  me  a  most  excellent  neighbor,  and  I  expect  to 
find  the  same  in  you." 

The  hour  for  the  French  lesson,  the  hour  for  the  portraits 
went  by,  and  still  Mrs.  Peacock's  tongue  moved  on.  It  was 
not  a  trip-hammer  tongue ;  oh,  no !  it  rolled  slowly,  steadily, 
endlessly,  like  a  well-oiled,  well-poised  wheel  propelled  by 
powerful  machinery,  which  never  paused,  because  it  never  * 
grew  weary.  Her  talk  seemed  interminable — an  ocean  with 
neither  bottom  nor  shores.  The  long  fringes  of  Hope's  eyelids 
had  begun  to  droop  on  the  fair  cheek.  Morna  leaned  her 
head  upon  her  hand  with  a  look  of  pain ;  I  had  grown  very 
tired  of  being  a  polite  listener,  when  we  were  relieved  from 
an  unexpected  quarter.  A  powerful  baby  shriek  pierced  the 
air,  descending  from  the  upper  regions.  "  Oh !  that's  my 
baby  !  that's  Serepty  Louizy !  Glory  Ann  has  let  her  Tall  out 
of  the  cradle  !  Oh,  that's  mother's  darling  baby  !"  cried  Mrs. 
Peacock,  in  a  tone  as  near  akin  to  agony  as  her  comfortable 
voice  could  possibly  assume.  She  rushed  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  at  least  this  impression  behind  her,  that  she  was  well 
satisfied  with  the  world  in  general,  and  remarkably  well  satis 
fied  with  herself  in  particular. 

Indeed,  a  most  comfortable  looking  woman  was  Mrs.  Pea- 


164  Victoire. 

cock.  And  in  this  country,  where  work  and  worry  make  so 
many  lean,  sharp-eyed,  anxious-looking  people,  a  thoroughly 
comfortable  looking  person  like  Mrs.  Peacock  is  a  blessed 
sight.  To  see  one  who  has  a  genius  for  taking  things  easy, 
no  matter  how  life  comes,  accepting  it  just  as  it  comes,  with 
unruffled  equanimity,  is  really  a  delightful  sight  by  way  of 
novelty. 

Mrs.  Peacock's  nerves  were  too  deeply  embedded  in  adipose 
to  be  easily  reached  by  the  fretting  friction  of  every-day 
annoyance.  What  blessed  nerves  they  were !  they  never  ached, 
and  were  never  sore.  The  only  sensation  which  they  seemed 
to  know  was  the  sensuous  life  which  trickled  through  the 
unctuous  ducts  and  creamy  sacs  of  her  vast  body.  There  was 
not  a  wrinkle  in  Mrs.  Peacock's  face,  not  one.  Not  a  crow 
foot  had  dared  to  leave  a  track  in  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 
Her  hair  was  warmly  golden,  flushed  with  red  ;  her  face  golden, 
tinged  faintly  pink,  mottled  with  patches  of  moth,  which 
spotted  its  round  surface,  like  the  opaque  blots  Tjshich  darken 
the  golden  face  of  the  full-orbed  moon.  She  had  light  blue, 
misty  eyes,  which  swam  in  a  dreamy  haze,  and  one  of  those 
sensuous  mouths  in  which  the  upper  lip  droops  over  the 
lower;  mouths  which  seem  made  to  enjoy  good  things  to  eat. 
Then  she  had  a  form  swelling  everywhere  in  curves,  not  an 
angle  to  be  seen ;  little  fat  hands ;  such  women  always  have 
fascinating  hands. 

Mrs.  Peacock  needed  but  three  things  to  complete  her 
happiness — a  baby,  a  book,  and  plenty  of  food  which  she 
liked  to  eat.  The  two  latter  were  necessary  ;  the  first  was 
indispensable.  Mrs.  Peacock  revelled  in  babies.  She  always 
had  a  baby,  and  she  always  wished  to  have  a  baby.  She 
would  as  willingly  have  gone  without  her  eyes  two  months 
of  the  year  as  to  have  gone  for  the  same  length  of  time  with 
out  a  baby.  Not  only  was  the  little  mewling,  crooning,  crying 
thing  itself  necessary  to  her  happiness,  but  several  of  her 
lesser  joys  depended  upon  its  existence. 

If  Mrs.  Peacock  had  had  no  baby,  she  could  have  offered 
no  plausible'  excuse  for  sitting  from  morning  till  night  in  a 
little  broken,  bumping,  thumping  rocking-chair,  affected  with 
a  chronic  squeak  in  one  rocker,  and  a  most  execrable  shriek 
in  the  other,  quite  sufficient  to  rack  anybody  less  like  a 
cushion  than  Mrs.  Peacock's  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Of  course, 
it  Mrs.  Peacock  had  had  no  baby,  she  would  have  had  no 
proper  excuse  for  leaving  her  work  undone.  The  only  object 
in  the  universe  for  which  Mrs.  Peacock  was  capable  of  feeling 


Our  New  Neighbor,  Mrs.  Peacock.         165 

anything  like  a  positive  hate,  was  work.  Her  temperament 
and  physical  constitution  made  her  lazy.  She  could  no  more 
help  it  than  she  could  that  deep,  composed  respiration  of  hers. 
If  she  had  a  baby  she  couldn't  work ;  of  course  she  couldn't. 
It  was  her  duty  to  improve  her  mind  and  cultivate  her  talents 
for  "  literatur ;"  what  else  was  her  mind  and  talents  given  her 
for?  If  she  had  a  baby  she  could  sit  all  day,  thumj^  thump, 
squeak,  squeak,  in  the  little  old  chair,  singing  to  baby,  and 
swallowing  yellow-covered  novels.  In  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Pea 
cock  the  baby  was  sufficient  apology  for  all  delinquencies.  If 
Mr.  Peacock  found  his  shirt  minus  buttons,  which,  alas !  he 
often  did,  and  then  took  the  liberty  to  discourse  upon  the  fact, 
after  the  manner  of  men,  the  only  consolation  which  his  spouse 
could  afford,  was: 

"  Well,  Mr.  Peacock,  you  should  consider  the  baby !  Dear 
•itty  t'ing  she  takes  all  muzer's  time,  so  she  does ;  and  so  she 
should,  muzer's  darlin'  baby !"  she  would  exclaim  in  the  mouth 
of  Serepty  Louizy,  rocking  and  jumping  her  in  a  violent  man 
ner,  drowning  in  noise  and  baby-talk  poor  Mr.  Peacock's 
faint  sermon  on  shirt  buttons  and  the  beauty  of  finding  them 
on  shirts ;  he,  in  the  meantime,  in  silent  and  grim  despair, 
fastening  on  that  garment  with  crooked  and  corroded  pins. 

When  Mr.  Peacock  found  his  hose  without  heels,  which  was 
also  a  frequent  occurrence,  and  ventured  to  suggest  to  Mrs. 
Peacock  the  propriety  of  encasing  them  in  a  network  of  yarn : 
"Dear  me!  Mr.  Peacock;  do  you  forget  the  baby?"  that 
lady  would  exclaim :  "  Of  course  you  can't  expect  me  to 
mend  or  to  do  anything  but  take  care  of  my  family,  until  it 
has  grown  out  of  the  way ;  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  when 
that  will  be." 

Mr.  Peacock  didn't  know  either ;  for  to  him  the  time  when 
the  family  would  be  grown  out  of  the  way,  seemed  as  far  off 
as  the  millennium.  Unconsciously  the  unfortunate  man  had 
learned  to  regard  the  little  helpless  inhabitant  of  the  cradle  as  a 
dreaded  rival,  the  foe  to  his  daily  and  nightly  comfort.  Mr. 
Peacock  could  endure  it  in  the  day-time,  but  he  did  wish  that 
he  could  sleep  nights.  The  hourly  wakings  from  pleasant 
dreams  he  bore  like  a  hero  at  first,  but  twelve  years  of  nightly 
nudgings  had  tired  him  out.  He  was  very  weary*of  being 
startled  from  pleasant  dreams  by  the  good-natured  but 
peremptory  call :  "  Mr.  Peacock !  Mr.  Peacock !  I  declare  if 
you  ain't  asleep !  Don't  you  hear  the  baby  cry  ?  Mr.  Pea 
cock,  do  get  up  and  get  a  light !"  The  baby  was  Mr.  Peacock's 
Nemesis. 


1 66  Victoire. 

Mrs.  Peacock  belonged  to  that  class  of  people  who  lie  be 
cause  they  cannot  help  it.  She  would  not  have  sat  down  and 
told  a  deliberate,  wilful  lie  any  sooner  than  the  mass  of  cate 
chism-taught  women  ;  still  she  managed  to  tell  a  great  many 
lies  nevertheless.  Her  brilliant  and  exhaustless  fancy  played 
around  the  simple,  ungarnished  truth,  illuminating  it  with 
all  the  ^,uds  of  fiction.  Thus  all  her  statements  outleaped 
the  cramping  boundaries  of  fact.  Exaggeration  was  as  natural 
as  her  breath,  and  having  always  indulged  it  as  a  habit,  it  had 
become  a  most  imperious  one,  and  she  of  course  did  not  realize 
to  what  a  very  absurd  extent  she  carried  her  misstatements. 
Had  her  powers  received  due  cultivation,  she  would  have 
made  one  of  those  ladies  who  write  "stories;"  who,  having 
nothing  more  important  to  do,  sit  in  their  shady  parlors  and 
see  how  many  brilliant  and  beautiful  lies  they  can  dilute  upon 
paper,  and  in  this  way  give  healthy  ventilation  to  their  sur 
charged  imagination.  Had  Mrs.  Peacock  been  one  of  these, 
the  description  of  her  "  father's  country  seat,"  without  doubt, 
would  have  added  lustre  to  the  columns  of  a  flash  journal,  as 
one  of  the  quieter  "  picters"  of  a  blood-and-thunder  story. 
But  with  all  her  passion  for  "  literatur',"  never  having  got  her 
hand  into  the  way  of  writing,  as  she  said,  her  burdened  ima 
gination  had  no  outlet  save  her  mouth,  so  she  felt  compelled 
to  tell  with  her  tongue  a  few  of  the  lies  which  many  others 
write  upon  paper,  and  then  palm  upon  the  credulous  public  as 
the  efforts  of  genius. 

Mr.  Peacock  looked  as  composed  and  happy  in  his  mind  as 
a  poor  man  who  had  had  ten  little  Peacocks  presented  to  him 
in  a  dozen  years  could  be  expected  to  look.  As  far  as  flesh 
and  blood  make  a  human  being,  he  was  a  very  faint  shadow 
beside  Mrs.  Peacock ;  indeed  it  can't  be  denied  that  Mr.  Pea 
cock  looked  thin  and  nervous,  and  his  black  eyes,  which  were 
exactly  like  George  Washington's,  without  George  Washing 
ton's  setting  of  fat,  seemed  restless  and  anxious.  It  must 
have  been  the  thought  of  that  everlasting  baby  which  made 
them  so.  Mr.  Peacock  was  not  miserably  poor.  He  held  a 
subordinate  position  in  a  wholesale  store,  and  his  income  was 
sufficient  to  suppprt  his  family  in  a  common  way,  with  a  little 
to  spare}  had  it  been  more  judiciously  managed.  George 
Washington  drove  a  lucrative  business  in  the  streets  as  "  news 
boy  ;"  and  amid  the  hundreds  of  his  fellows  who  smoked 
cigars,  chewed  vile  tobacco,  drank,  swore,  and  yelled  in  the 
streets,  there  was  not  one  \vho  could  throw  his  heels  higher 
in  the  air,  run  faster  in  spite  of  his  fat,  scream  worse  English, 


Our  New  Neighbor,  Mrs.  Peacock.         167 

or  lie  louder,  or  faster,  about  the  "  ship"  that  hadn't  come,  or 
the  news  that  was  not  in  the  paper,  than  George  Washington 
Peacock. 

Hope's  gentle  soul  seemed  to  be  burdened  with  the  thought 
of  George  Washington  from  the  morning  of  his  first  Appearing. 
"Would  he  go  to  Sunday-school  with  her?"  she  wondered. 
She  was  afraid  that  he  was  one  of  the  boys  whom  she  had 
heard  screaming  outside  of  the  church  on  the  Sabbath  :  "  Sun 
day  Herald!  Times!  Mercury!"  "What  a  dreadful  way  to 
spend  the  Sabbath.  She  should  try  to  coax  him  to  go  to  Sab 
bath-school.  Did  we  think  that  she  would  succeed  ?" 

"Yes,"  we  said,  of  course.  And  before  Saturday  came,  I 
yielded  to  Hope's  entreaties  to  go  up  with  her,  just  to  see  if 
George  Washington  ever  had  been  to  Sunday-school,  or  if  he 
would  go. 

We  found  Mrs.  Peacock's  sitting-room  to  be  just  like  her 
self.  A  gorgeous  imagination,  as  coarse  as  it  was  luxuriant, 
seemed  bursting  from  every  nook  and  crevice.  The  tawdry 
white  curtains  were  looped  back  with  brilliant  rags  of  ribbon, 
revealing  paper  shades  of  a  very  startling  pattern,  covered 
with  castles  and  ships,  men  and  wild  beasts,  in  strange  proxi 
mity  and  stunning  relief.  The  whitewashed  walls  were  hung 
with  colored  prints,  patriotic,  sanguinary,  and  sentimental ; 
George  Washington,  "  the  Father  of  his  Country,"  "  Benjamin 
Franklin,"  and  "  Andrew  Jackson,"  of  couse  were  there ;  so 
also  were  the  "  Battles  of  Bunker  Hill"  and  "  Lexington,"  in 
which  were  seen  very  fierce  horses  jumping  in  the  air,  men 
writhing  on  the  ends  of  bayonets  with  torrents  of  blood  spurt 
ing  from  their  noses ;  and  beside  these  pictured  battles  hung 
the  "  Soldier's  Departure"  and  "  Soldier's  Return,"  in  both  of 
which  was  seen  a  ringleted  lady,,  holding  a  very  elaborate 
pocket-handkei  chief,  clinging  to  the  neck  of  a  tall  gentleman 
in  gold  epaulettes,  a  blue  coat,  and  tight  white  pants.  The 
mantel  was  crowded  with  ornaments.  In  the  centre  stood 
the  image  of  a  huge  old  man,  with  his  tongue  hanging  out  as 
if  in  great  distress,  holding  a  clock  face  in  the  centre  of  his 
stomach.  Besides,  there  were  plaster  of  Paris  vases  filled 
with  yellow  lemons  and  red  tomatoes ;  painted  owls  and  ani 
mals,  and  queer  old  men  and  women.  In  one  corner  stood  a 
table  piled  with  dishes  sadly  mixed  up  with  the  remnants  of 
breakfast;  the  stove,  red  with  rust,  held  a  standing  army  of 
pots  and  kettles ;  in  a  room  adjoining,  the  nursery  probably, 
the  whole  troop  of  little  Peacocks  were  screaming,  laughing, 
crying,  and  fighting,  as  it  suited  their  mood ;  the  happiest 


1 68  Victoire. 

amusing  themselves  by  dragging  about  the  floor  the  bed 
clothes  belonging  to  a  neighboring  bed.  Before  the  window, 
with  her  back  turned  towards  us,  sat  Mrs.  Peacock,  in  the  old 
broken  rocking-chair,  rocking  vigorously,  thump,  thump, 
squeak,  sqneak,  holding  Serepty  Louizy  and  reading  aloud. 
Amid  the  general  uproar  we  knew  that  she  had  not  heard  our 
knock,  and  so  ventured  to  enter  unbidden.  As  she  was  not 
aware  of  our  entrance,  she  continued  her  reading,  and  we 
stood  and  listened,  scarcely  knowing  what  better  to  do : 

"  They  hurried  to  Adolphe's  chamber  ;  they  heard  a  groan 
as  they  opened  the  door ;  they  found  their  son  stretched  on 
the  bed,  pale  and  haggard  ;  on  the  table  was  a  phial  labelled 
'poison  ;'  the  phial  was  empty. 

"  '  My  son  !  my  son !  you  have  not  been  so  wicked.  Speak  ! 
speak !' 

"  *  Oh,  I  suffer  tortures  !  Oh,  I  am  dying.  Leave  me ! 
Celeste  has  also  taken  poison  ;  we  could  not  live  without  each 
other.  Cruel  parents,  we  mock  you  and  die  !' — 

"  '  Recover,  recover,  my  son,  and  Celeste  shall  be  yours,' 
said  his  mother,  falling  in  hysterics." 

Here  Serepty  Louizy  gave  evidence  of  her  existence  by  a 
loud  scream.  Mrs.  Peacock  ceased  reading,  seized  the  young 
lady's  toes  one  by  one,  singing :  "  This  pig  went  to  market, 
this  pig  stayed  at  home ;  this  pig  ate  all  the  white  bread,  and 
this  pig  had  none.  This  pig  said,  I'll — tell — mamma — 
when — she — comes — home."  Serepty  Louizy  seemed  infi 
nitely  amused,  and  became  quiet.  Mrs.  Peacock  resumed 
her  reading: 

" '  Adolphe,  traitor !  where  hast  thou  been  !' 

" '  Merely  shooting  in  the  woods,  my  angel.' 

"'What!  without  me?  Fie!  promise  that  this  shall  not 
happen  again.' 

"  '  Oh,  dearest !  too  gladly  do  I  promise.  But,  Celeste, 
three  hours  have  I  been  seeking  for  you.  Where  have  you 
hid  yourself?' 

"  '  Don't  look  so  angry,  my  Adolphe.  I  was  only  directing 
the  gardener  to  build  a  little  arbor  for  you  to  read  in.  I 
meant  it  as  a  surprise.' 

"  '  My  own  Celeste !  three  hours  is  an  eternity  without  you. 
Promise  not  to  leave  me  again.' 

"  '  My  own  dearest,  dearest  Adolphe !  how  I  love  you.  May 
my  company  ever  be  as  dear  to  you.'  " 

Here  Serepty  Louizy  thought  it.time  to  give  another  scream 
by  way  of  interlude,  louder  and  more  protracted  than  before. 


Our  New  Neighbor,  Mrs.  Peacock.          169 

"  What  ails  Muzer's  ducky  diamond  ?  A  wicked  pin  pricks 
her,  so  it  does." 

"  Rock-a-by,  baby,  on  the  tree  top, 
When  the  wind  blows  the  cradle  will  rock ; 
When  the  bough  bends  the  cradle  will  fall, 
Down'll  come  cradle,  baby,  and  all." 

Serepty  Louizy  became  quiet,  and  again  Mrs.  Peacock  read 
on: 

"'Indeed,  Adolphe,  if  the  truth  may  be  said,  you  have 
lately  contracted  a  bad  habit — you  are  getting  a  squint  in 
your  eye.' 

"'Madame!'  said  Adolphe,  prodigiously  offended,  hurrying 
to  the^  glass. 

"'Don't  be  angry,  my  love;  I  would  not  have  mentioned  it, 
if  it  did  not  get  worse  every  day;  it  is  yet  to  be  cured;  just 
put  a  wafer  on  the  top  of  your  nose  and  you  will  soon  see 
straight.' 

" '  A  wafer  on  the  top  of  my  nose !  Much  better  put  one  on 
the  tip  of  your  chin,  Celeste.' 

" '  My  chin,'  said  Celeste,  running  to  the  glass.  '  What  do 
you  mean,  sir?' 

" '  Only  that  you  have  a  very  large  wart  there  which  it 
would  be  more  agreeable  to  conceal.' 

" '  Sir !' 

" '  Madam !' 

" '  A  wart  on  my  chin,  monster !' 
' '  A  squint  in  my  eye,  fool !' 

' '  Yes  ;  how  could  I  ever  love  a  man  who  squinted  ?' 
' '  Or  I  a  woman  with  a  wart  on  her  chin!' 
' '  Sir,  I  shall  not  condescend  to  notice  your  insults.' 
' '  Madam,  I  despise  your  insinuations.'  " 

Serepty  Louizy  now  thought  it  high  time  to  enter  upon  a 
series  of  screeches,  in  comparison  with  which  her  former 
efforts  were  but  feeble  echoes.  Evidently  she  had  heard 
enough  of  that  story,  and  did  not  mean  to  listen  to  any  more. 
Mrs.  Peacock  began  to  rock  and  sing  with  accelerated  violence. 
Thump,  thump,  squeak,  squeak,  was  the  refrain  to  her  song : 

"  Hush,  my  dear  1  lie  still  and  slumber. 

Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed, 
Heavenly  blessings  without  number 
Fall  on  Serepty  Louizy's  head." 

We  thought  the  moment  a  good  one  to  present  ourselves. 

8 


170  Victoire. 

The  presence  of  strangers  might  change  the  current  of  Se- 
repty  Louizy's  emotions. 

"  O  laws !  I'm  glad  to  see  you ;  glad  you've  begun  to  neigh 
bor.  Serepty  Louizy  has  got  a  colic  this  mornin' ;  but  I  think 
she'll  be  better  soon.  Sit  down,"  said  Mrs.  Peacock,  as  she 
turned  and  saw  us  advancing. 

"  Does  she  see  the  ladies !  Muzer's  baby  dear  ?"  she  said, 
dancing  Serepty  Louizy  in  the  air,  who  opened  a  pair  of  black 
eyes  very  like  George  Washington's  and  stared  at  us  in  baby 
wonder,  her  colic  apparently  entirely  cured  ;  while  the  flock 
of  little  Peacocks  came  rushing  from  the  nursery  to  see  the 
strangers. 

"  There,  children,  go  back !  Go  back  to  play,  mother's 
little  dears.  Don't  cry,  Glory  Ann,  and  you  shall  have  a 
sugar  doll ;  George  Washington  will  bring  it  to  you.  The 
children  are  so  happy  this  mornin'  I  didn't  hear  you  come  in. 
You  see  that  I  has  a  beautiful  family.  Children  is  a  great 
blessing.  I  pity  every  one  that  hasn't  got  any.  Oh,  did  you 
hear  me  readin'  ?  That's  one  of  the  most  interestin'  stones 
George  Washington  has  brought  me  for  a  long  time.  One  of 
Bulwer's  stories  for  married  people.  *  True  Ordeal  of  Love' 
is  the  name  of  it.  Well,  I  like  Bulwer ;  he  goes  to  the  root 
of  matters.  Of  course  he  knows — hasn't  he  had  'sperience  ? 
Of  course  he  knows  that,  if  we've  a  mind  to,  we  can  look  at 
one  little  fault  in  a  person  till  we  can't  see  nothin'  else,  till  it 
covers  them  all  over,  and  grows  as  big  as  Celeste's  wart.  He 
knows  that  folks  dead  in  love  can  grow  dreadfully  tired 
of  each  other,  if  they're  never  apart.  Bulwer  knows  all 
about  it;  he  knows  'taint  no  use  talkin'  over  natur's  defects. 
As  I  sez  to  Mr.  Peacock,  Mr.  Peacock,  sez  I,  it  'taint  no  nse 
makin'  words  over  what  can't  be  helped.  Married  folks  don't 
ought  to  find  fault  with  each  other.  It  don't  do  no  good. 
They  take  each  other  for  better  or  worse,  and  if  they  find  it's  for 
worse,  it  don't  make  it  better  to  go  thro'  the  world  growlin' 
and  grumblin'.  For  my  part,  I  think  it's  a  great  deal  better 
to  make  the  best  of  folks,  instead  of  the  worst  on  'em.  If 
they  see  you  remember  the  good  in  them,  they  feel  kind  o'  en 
couraged  and  keep  growin'  better  and  better ;  but  if  you  keep 
talkin'  of  the  bad,  why  they  grow  discouraged  and  think 
there  aint  a  bit  of  use  in  tryin'.  As  I  sez  to  Mr.  Peacock, 
Mr.  Peacock  sez  I,  you  needn't  'a  married  me  if  you  didn't 
want  to ;  of  course  you  needn't ;  you  might  have  married 
Susan  Slasher;  she  wanted  you  bad  enough,  mercy  knows. 
I  needn't  have  married  you ;  of  course  I  needn't.  Wasn't 


Our  New  Neighbor,  Mrs.  Peacock.         171 

young  Squire  Tim  dead  in  love  with  me  ?  Didn't  he  look  jest 
as  if  he  were  meltin'  whenever  I  kem  round  ?  Didn't  I  look 
straight  ahead,  dre'ful  unconscious,  just  as  if  nothin'  ailed  him  ? 
and  all  from  principle?  I  wasn't  goin'  to  encourage  him 
just  to  dissapint  him,  and  make  him  take  pisen,  for  wasn't  I  in 
love  with  you,  Mr.  Peacock?  Didn't  I  have  lots  of  lovers? 
I,  Serepty  Ann  Green  of  Greentown,  and  never  looked  at  any 
of  them,  because  I  loved  you,  Mr.  Peacock  ?  But  sez  I, 
suppose  I'd  married  Squire  Tim,  and  you'd  married  Susan 
Slasher,  Susan  wouldn't  have  had  my  faults ;  of  course  she 
wouldn't ;  but  she'd  a  had  her  own.  And  sez  I,  Mr.  Peacock, 
you  wouldn't  have  liked  her  faults-  any  better  than  you  like 
mine.  I  know  Susan  is  a  cut-and-dash  sort  of  a  woman ;  she'd 
a  put  the  work  through  faster  than  I  do,  like  enough ;  but 
would  she  have  given  her  life  away  to  your  children  as  I  do, 
Mr.  Peacock  ?  No,  you  know  she  wouldn't.  Has  she  got 
my  elevated  mind?  No,  you  know  she  hasn't ;  and  my  taste 
for  literatur'?  No,  you  know  she  hasn't.  But  she's  got  a 
higher  head ;  that  you  know  Mr.  Peacock.  She'd  a  taken  her 
own  way  by  storm,  not  quietly  as  I  do ;  that  you  know,  Mr. 
Peacock.  And  there's  Squire  Tim — I  spect  he's  as  many  faults 
as  you  have,  Mr.  Peacock,  if  I  only  knew  'em ;  you'se  a  dre' 
ful  trial  to  me  sometimes,  Mr.  Peacock,  scoldin'  around,  but 
I  love  you  better  than  a  thousand  Squire  Tims.  Pity  if  I  don't. 
And  if  you  squint  a  little,  I  aint  goin'  to  look  at  it  till  you 
squint  worse,  or  till  I  see  nothin'  but  squint ;  and  you  musn't 
stare  at  the  wart  on  my  chin  till  it  covers  all  my  face.  That's 
what  I  say  to  Mr.  Peacock,  young  ladies,  and  it's  just  as  good 
for  you  to  hear.  Only  when  you  get  married,  be  sure  you  mar 
ry  for  love,  and  for  nothin'  else,  aud  everything  will  come 
out  right.  Squints  and  warts  will  keep  growin'  less  and 
less." 

We  were  thankful  that  the  second  for  breathing  had  come ; 
and  Hope  filled  it  by  asking  in  a  slightly  tremulous  voice,  as 
if  she  had  no  right  to  put  the  question,  if  George  Washington 
attended  Sunday-school. 

"  Laws  a  day  !  I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  but  George  Washington 
doesn't.  As  I  was  tellin'  the  other  night,  George  Washing 
ton  aint  like  none  of  my  other  children — George  Washington 
is  marked.  I  never  could  make  him  mind.  He's  got  way  be 
yond  me  or  his  father,  and  does  jest  as  he  pleases.  Still  I've 
all  a  mother's  feelin's  for  him,  poor  boy.  And  I  can't  com 
plain,  he's  very  good  to  his  mother  in  his  way.  See,  he 
brought  me  all  those  books" — and  she  pointed  to  a  bureau  piled 


172  Victoire. 

high  with  yellow  literature.    "  I  wish  he  would  go  to  Sunday- 
school  ;"  and  a  real  sigh  came  up  from  her  motherly  heart. 

At  that  juncture  a  very  decided  clatter  was  heard  on  the 
stairs,  and  in  a  moment  more  George  Washington  presented 
himself — looking  just  as  odd  in  the  face,  but  a  little  more 
civilized  in  costume,  than  when  he  presented  himself  at  our 
door  for  a  cup  of  sugar.  The  pugnacious  boot  was  now  ac 
companied  by  its  masculine  fellow,  and  the  broad  back  was 
covered  with  a  "  hard  times"  coat  all  of  one  color.  I  conclud 
ed  that  on  the  former  morning  we  had  seen  the  young  gen 
tleman  in  his  early  dishabille ;  that  the  feminine,  slatternly 
gaiter  had  been  worn  for  the  soothing  of  a  sore  foot,  while 
V habit  de  drap  et  V habit  de  soie,  which  had  astonished  us  with 
its  brilliancy,  was  an  exclusively  home  garment,  worn,  very 
likely,  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  mother,  whose  fantastic  mend 
ing  had  made  it  the  gorgeous  thing  it  was.  George  Washing 
ton  carried  under  his  arm  a  budget  of  illustrated  papers  which 
he  tossed  into  his  mother's  lap.  In  alighting  they  hit  the 
head  of  Serepty  Louizy,  who  set  up  a  scream  of  anger  rather 
than  pain,  loud  enough  to  put  all  her  colic  cries  far  in  the 
shade,  beating  the  air  with  her  little  fists  and  looking  fiercely  at 
George  Washington,  as  if  there  was  nothing  which  she  want 
ed  to  do  quite  so  much  as  to  hit  the  red  berry  on  the  end  of 
his  nose. 

"  Stop  your  yellin',  Rep,  you  little  porcupine,"  said  the 
young  gentleman,  looking  with  considerable  complacency, 
however,  on  this  pocket  edition  of  himself. 

"  Mamm,  there's  readin'  enough  to  keep  you  till  to-morrow. 
The  Pirate  of  the  Pacific's  advertised ;  I'.ll  git  you  that  in  the 
mornin'.'' 

"  George  Washington,  don't  you  see  the  ladies  ?  Can't 
you  be  perlite  ?" 

"  No  !  darn  it,  I  never  learned." 

"  George  Washington,  won't  you  never  stop  swearin'  and 
callin'  me  Mamm  ?" 

"  I  swears  and  calls  you  Mamm  behind  folks'sback,  so  I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  don't  do  it  before  their  face.  I  doesn't  want 
nobody  think  I'm  better  than  I  is." 

"  I  wish  you'd  dress  up  nice  and  go  to  Sunday-school  every 
Sunday,  George  Washington  ?" 

^  The  d 1  you  do  !     Well,  I  shan't  do  it.     I  can  spend 

my  Sunday  in  a  more  satisfyin'  manner.  Sunday  I  yells  the 
loudest,  I  lies  the  fastest,  I  makes  the  most  money.  Sunday's 
the  day  I  sell  so  many  Sunday  Heralds  to  the  tine  gentlemen 


Our  New  Neighbor,  Mrs.  Peacock.          173 

on  their  way  home  from  church.  'Tisn't  this  bird'll  leave 
his  best  trade  and  go  to  Sunday-school.  I'm  in  fur  the  cash." 

"  These  ladies  have  come  in  to  ask  you  to  go  to  Sunday- 
school,  George  Washington  ;  I  wish  you'd  be  pei'lite." 

George  Washington  moved  uneasily.  All  the  while  he  had 
been  talking  he  had  never  looked  at  us  once,  and  in  spite  of 
his  ]oud,  defiant  tones,  there  was  an  undefined  embarrassment 
in  his  manner,  as  if  he  himself  was  conscious  of  breathing  very 
near  a  new  foreign  element. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  to  Sunday-school  with  me  ?" 
asked  Hope,  in  a  half  supplicating  tone. 

At  the  sound  of  that  delicious  voice,  George  Washington 
turned  from  the  little  old  broken  chair  of  his  mother,  which 
he  had  been  jerking  and  twitching  in  a  most  unaccountable 
manner,  and  took  in  Hope  from  head  to  feet  with  his  snapping 
eyes.  They  dilated  with  admiration  to  the  utmost  limit  which 
the  fat  would  allow. 

"  I'll  be if  I  wouldn't,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  If  you'll 

let  me  go  with  you,  I'll  be  if  I  don't  go>evary  darned 

Sunday.  Cash,  Sunday  Herald  fine  gentlemen,  may  all  go 
to  the  d 1." 

"  If  you  won't  say  bad  words  I'll  be  glad  to  have  you  go," 
said  Hope. 

"  Darn  it,  I  wouldn't  if  I  could  help  it.  I'd  never  say  ano 
ther  just  because  you  don't  want  me  to.  But  when  a  fellow 
can't  help  it,  what's  he  going  to  do,  darn  it  ?  If  any  body 
could  make  a  chap  decent,  'twould  be  some  'un  who  looks 
and  talks  just  like  you.  Mamm  allers  says  I  am  marked,  so 
what's  the  use  tryin',  d n  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  George  Washington  ;  never  mind  if  you  are  marked  ; 
you'll  outgrow  it.  1  never  meant  to  discourage  you,  George 
Washington  ;  never.  It's  against  my  principles,  as  I  said  to 
your  father  ;  ses~  I — " 

"  There,  Mamm,  there !  don't  begin  one  of  your  all-fired 
long  speeches  or  you  won't  stop  till  night." 

"  Well,  George  Washington,  you're  a  good  boy  to  promise 
to  go  to  Sunday-school,"  she  said,  encouragingly. 

"  No,  I  aint,  neither.  I  wouldn't  go  now  to  please  you.  I 
go  to  please  lier,  though  you  knows  I  allers  said  I'd  do  as  I'd 
a  mind  to,  spite  of  all  the  wimmens  in  creation." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  good  boy  to  go  to  please  her.  It'll  do  you 
a  great  deal  of  good  and  larn  you  not  to  swear."  Mrs.  Pea 
cock  seemed  determined  that  her  son  should  not  falter  on  the 
good  track  for  lack  of  her  approval.  "  You're  my  own  dar- 


174-  Victoire. 

ling  sonny !  Come  and  kiss  your  mother,  George  Washing 
ton  ?" 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Mamm,  don't.  I  won't  kiss  yon,  I'll  be 

if  I  will.  If  I  can't  kiss  who  I  \vant  to,  I  won't  kiss  nobody." 

"  Stop  your  noise,  you  little  porcupine,"  he  shouted  angrily, 
shaking  his  fist,  as  if  it  were  a  relief  to  his  dissatisfaction,  at 
Miss  Serepty  Louizy,  who  was  jumping  and  crowing  on  the 
pinnacle  of  baby  glee,  as  if  delighted  with  the  fact  that  George 
Washington  couldn't  kiss  the  one  whom  he  wanted  to. 

Sabbath  came  jubilant  with  its  morning  bells,  the  whole 
world  seemed  full  of  their  nine  o'clock  music,  when  another 
loud  round  knock  was  heard  on  our  door,  and  we  opened  it 
to  behold  George  Washington  Peacock,  dressed  in  a  new  suit 
from  head  to  toe.  A  bright  red  handkerchief  tied  his  fat  neck  ; 
a  galvanized  spread  eagle  blazed  on  his  shirt  bosom  as  a 
breast-pin  ;  his  wilful  hair  was  oiled  to  softness  ;  his  black- eyes 
twinkled  with  a  new  happiness.  It  was  the  event  of  his  lite 
when  he  stepped  out  upon  the  sidewalk  beside  Hope  to  go 
for  the  fifst  time  to  Sabbath-school.  We  walked  to  church, 
rejoicing  in  our  hearts  that  there  "was  at  least  one  voice  the 
less  (and  a  very  lusty  one  too)  to  desecrate  the  sacred  stillness 
of  that  autumnal  Sabbath  with  the  eager,  mercenary  shout  of 
"  morning  papers,"  "  morning  papers  !"  "Sunday  Herald, 
Mercury,  Times.'1'' 


GEORGE   WASHINGTON   PEACOCK   IN   A   FIRE. 

Mrs.  Peacock  had  never  received  into  her  luminous  intel 
ligence  the  full  significance  of  the  injunction  of  Solomon  : 

"  Withdraw  thy  foot  from  thy  neighbor's  house,  lest  he  be 
weary  of  thee,  and  so  hate  thee." 

Mrs.  Peacock  could  visit  and  tend  the  baby  as  well  as  re^d 
and  tend  the  baby  ;  besides,  Miss  Serepty  Louizy  had  all  the 
strong  likes  and  dislikes  which  a  one  year  old  young  lady  is 
entitled  to  have,  and  much  preferred  visiting  to  the  little  old 
excruciating  rocking  chair  with  the  chronic  squeak,  or  the 
monotonous  sing-song  of  her  mother's  voice  reading  aloud 
some  lachrymose  story. 

Dodging  at  the  leaves  with  her  baby  fists,  and  bobbing  her 
little  black  pate  against  the  cover  till  the  book  shook  so  that 
her  mother  could  not  read,  ceased  to  be  a  satisfactory  revenge, 
after  she  had  learned  the  sweetness  of  coining  dowu  stairs, 


George  Washington  Peacock  in  a  Fire.      175 

and  having  her  mouth  filled  with  sugar-plums.  This  act,  at 
first  a  pleasure,  very  soon  became  a  necessity.  Serepty 
Louizy  having  received  sugar-plums  once,  knew  of  no  reason 
why  she  might  not  continue  to  receive  them  daily  to  the  end 
of  her  mortal  life,  and  acted  accordingly.  In  the  first  place, 
she  set  up  a  succession  of  poignant,  piercing  shrieks  each 
morning,  as  a  signal  to  her  mother  to  bear  her  in  her  arms 
down  stairs. 

"  Bess  her  itty  heart !  she  wants  to  go  and  see  the  ladies,  so 
se  duz,  and  so  se  sall^  muzer's  bessed  birdy  baby !"  Mrs. 
Peacock  would  exclaim  before  the  first  volley  of  cries  was 
exhausted.  Next  to  babies,  and  reading  §,nd  eating,  Mrs. 
Peacock  delighted  in  visiting,  provided  she  might  visit  where 
she  could  find  a  patient  listener.  For  this  reason,  with  a 
sense  of  satisfaction  she  heard  those  daily  morning  screams, 
because  they  gave  her  a  good  excuse  for  making  a  morning 
call.  The  shrieks  of  Miss .  Serepty  Louizy  were  distinctly 
heard  in  our  little  apartment,  and  we  deemed  ourselves  most 
happy  if  we  could  conclude  our  breakfast  before  her  cries 
began.  Alas,  we  knew  too  well  the  inevitable  sequence  to  this 
warning  sound  would  be  the  creaking  and  groaning  of  the 
enfeebled  and  disjointed  stairs,  shuddering  under  the  double 
burden  of  Miss  Serepty  Louizy  and  her  ponderous  mother. 
In  a  moment  more  would  appear  the  golden  face  of  Mrs.  Pea 
cock  bland  as  the  full  moon.  She  would  begin  : 

"  You  see,  ladies,  I  keep  my  promise  not  to  let  you  feel 
neglected.  My  attention  is  proof  of  my  'preciation.  Of 
course  you  know  I  didn't  neighbor  jest  the  same  with  nobody 
else  in  the  house ;  I  know  a  lady  jest  the  minit  I  set  my  eyes 
on  her,  and  for  my  part,  I'm  glad  at  last  I've  got  some  ladies 
to  neighbor  with.  Next  to  children,  there's  no  blessin'  like 
good  neighbors.  As  T  married  below  my  station,  I've  had  to 
neighbor  with  them  who  wasn't  ladies,  but  as  I  was  tellin'  you 
afore,  I  never  forget  that  I  was  Serepty  Ann — " 

Here  Serepty  Louizy  would  think  it  high  time  to  have  her 
claims  recognised,  and,  seeing  no  sugar-plums  forthcoming, 
would  begin  to  shriek  her  disappointment. 

"  Dear  me,  Serepty  Louizy  has  got  such  a  colic  this  morning. 
I  don't  see  what  ails  the  child,  but  she  has  it  now  every  blessed 
day,  'specially  in  the  early  part.  I  brought  her  down  to  see  if 
it  wouldn't  pacify  her.  Nothin'  duz  her  so  much  good  as  to 
come  down  here,  poor  little  thing.  The  likin'  she  has  taken 
to  you  is  surprisen." 

By  this  time  Serepty  Louizy  would  be  sucking  her  sugar- 


176  Victoire. 

plums  with  all  a  baby's  fierce  avidity.  The  time  had  come 
when,  in  the  memoranda  of  our  daily  wants,  AVC  would  as  soon 
have  left  out  bread  as  sugar-plums ;  for  we  could  not  have 
dreaded  hunger  more  than  we  did  the  voracious  screams  of 
the  little  animal  from  up  stairs. 

"  Tank  de  ladies,  Serepty  Louizy !  muzer's  darlin'  baby 
must  be  perlite ;  tank  de  ladies  for  the  sugar-plums!"  Mrs. 
Peacock  would  exclaim,  bobbing  forward  with  her  hand  the 
little  head  covered  with  bristling  black  hair,  as  a  tacit 
acknowledgment  of  favors  received.  But  her  effort  to  make 
Miss  Serepty  Louizy  -return  thanks  was  always  abortive, 
resulting  only  in^a  violent  shriek  and  grabbing  of  the  little 
hands  for  the  retreating  sugar-plums,  which  Serepty  Louizy 
saw  disappearing  down  "muzer's"  throat. 

"  There,  there,  don't  cry !  muzer  won't  eat  no  more  ;  muzer 
don't  want  baby's  sugar-plums ;  no  she  don't"  (a  lie,  of  course). 

"  Poor  little  thing,  she  feels  thankful,  but  she  can't  show 
perliteness  cause  she  can't  talk.  The  ladies  won't  hold  nothin' 
agin  her,  muzer  knows.  She's  got  lots  of  love  in  her  heart, 
only  she  don't  know  nothin'  how  to  show  it.  You  only  ought 
to  hear  her  cry  to  come  down  and  see  you  every  mornin'. 
All  my  children's  is  'fectionate.  There's  George  Washington, 
ludj  how  he's  taken  to  Miss  Hope.  Why  I  never  see  nothin' 
like  it.  Miss  Marna  and  Miss  Victory;  he  thinks  that  you 
are  both  very  fine,  but  that  you  can't  hold  a  candle  to  Miss 
Hope  for  looks.  Excuse  me  for  being  plain — it's  my  way. 
0  That's  only  what  George  Washington  thinks.  'Taint  no  ways 
sartain  he  knows.  Now  he  says  I  ain't  handsome ;  p'haps  I 
ain't  now,  but  I  was  I  tell  you,  ladies ;  Serepty  Ann  Green 
was  the  belle  of  Greentown.  Oh^  dear,  those  days  are  gone 
and  over !  No  woman  can  allers  stay  a  belle.  When  I  get 
kind  o'  lonesum',  cause  there  ain't  no  one  now  to  tell  me  I'm 
handsome,  I  'sole  myself  with  the  'flection  that  I'd  rather  be 
the  happy  mother  of  my  beau'ful  family,  than  to  be  a  faded 
belle,  livin'  on  flattery  that  don't  mean  nothin'  after  all,  and 
in  the  long  run  ain't  by  no  means  satisfyin'. 

"But  George  Washington,  if  he  is  my  son,  and  if  he  does 
have  his  little  failins,  he's  honest.  He  never  says  one  thing, 
when  he  means  t'other.  No,  George  Washington  never  does. 
So  when  George  Washington  faid  :  '  Mamm,  you  ain't  hand 
some  and  never  was,'  I  knew  he  meant  it.  'Twasn't  very 
pleasant  to  natur'  to  be  told  so,  but  I  'soled  myself  with  two 
'flections :  first,  that  George  Washington  thought  he  told  the 
truth ;  second,  that  he  didn't  know.  Of  course  'twasn't  in 


George  Washington  Peacock  in -a  Fire.       177 

the  order  of  natur'  that  he  should  know  how  I  looked  when  I 
was  Serepty  Ann  Green,  the  belle  of  Greentown.  Ses  I,  I'm 
glad  you've  taken  to  Sunday  School,  I  think  you'll  comfort  your 
mother's  heart  yet ;  '  Mamm,'  says  he,  '  I  don't  go  to  comfort 
your  heart ;  I  goes  jest  because  she  wants  me  to.  I'd  cut  off 
my  nose,  I'd  saw  off  my  feet,  I'd  bury  myself  alive,  if  she 
wanted  me  to.  I  wouldn't  do  one  on  'em  for  you ;  not  one 
on  'em.' 

At  about  this  stage  in  the  daily  narrative,  the  sugar-plums 
having  all  vanished  through  the  agency  of  Mrs.  Peacock  and 
her  infant  daughter,  the  latter  would  commence  a  series  of 
screeches  for  more.  All  in  the  house  having  been  devoured, 
the  young  lady,  Serepty  Louizy,  seemed  to  have  an  intuition 
that  her  cries  would  be  unavailing  until  the  next  morning, 
and  so  consoled  herself  by  shifting  her  desires  to  other  objects, 
which  she  demanded  just  as  vociferously  as  she  had  before  the 
sugar-plums.  There  was  not  a  portable  article  in  the  room 
that  she  did  not  want.  She  screamed  for  the  few  trinkets 
which  it  contained ;  she  screamed  for  the  white  roses  in  the 
window;  she  screamed  for  my  pencils  and  crayons;  she 
screamed  for  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  and  for  the  pictures 
on  the  easel.  She  would  jump  in  her  mother's  lap,  trying  to 
grasp  the  unattainable  treasure,  but  her  little  hands  with  all 
their  grabbing  only  clutched  the  air.  Then  she  would  stamp 
her  mother's  knee  in  rage,  and  the  black  hair  would  bristle  all 
over  her  little  head,  until  I,  at  least,  no  longer  wondered  why 
George  Washington  called  her  a  porcupine.  Her  loving  mo 
ther  recognised  in  her  paroxysms  of  temper  only  the  severest 
agonies  of  colic,  and  when  at  last  even  Hope's  sweet  face  look 
ed  worn ;  when  Morna's  was  covered  with  a  deadly  pallor 
and  her  nerves  strained  to  their  utmost  tension ;  when  I  was 
ready  either  to  laugh  or  cry  with  mirth  at  Serepty's  young 
face,  or  vexation  at  her  tiresome  noise ;  when  the  hubbub 
grew  so  dense  that  it  could  not  be  penetrated  by  Mrs.  Pea 
cock's  "  sez  I,"  then  that  lady  would  depart  with  step  as 
accelerated  as  her  lymphatic  temperament  would  allow,  "to 
go  and  get  some  perry  goric  to  ease  Serepty  Louizy's  colic." 

She  would  depart,  but  not  for  the  day.  No  ;  there  were  a 
hundred  things  for  which  she  "  must  run  down  just  for  a  mi 
nute."  She  wanted  half  a  cup  of  sugar.  "It  was  impossible 
for  her  to  drink  her  tea  without  sugar.  She  forgot  to  tell  Mr. 
Peacock  that  she  wanted  sugar.  Would  we  lend  her  a  draw- 
in'  of  tea?  Mr.  Peacock  would  bring  some  home  at  night." 
"  Could  we  let  her  have  jest  a  teaspoonful  of  starch  ?  Mr. 

8* 


'78 


Victoire. 


Peacock  was  so  perticler  about  his  shirts ;  he  wouldn't  wear  a 
Bhirt  unless  it  was  starched  jest  so.  To  night  was  'Lodge 
night,'  and  Mr.  Peacock  hadn't  a  clean  shirt  to  wear,  and 
there  he  was,  Worthy  Grand  Master  of  the  Lodge.  The  shirt 
must  be  washed,  starched,  dried  by  the  stove,  all  in  an  hour, 
or  what  would  Mr.  Peacock  say  ?  Why  he'd  scold ;  Mr.  Pea 
cock  could  scold,  and  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  world  but 
what  would  scold  if  his  shirt  wasn't  ready.  Men  couldn't 
make  no  allowance  for  children  that  had  to  be  taken  care  of; 
they  must  have  their  shirt,  children  or  no  children,  or  they'd 
make  a  fuss.  Why  even  George  Washington  would  rage 
about  his  collar,  if  it  wasn't  jest  so  stiffs  Would  we  have  mer 
cy  on  her  and  lend  her  a  spoonful  of  starch?  Would  we 
let  her  take  a  needle  and  thread  ?  Mr.  Peacock's  suspender- 
button  was  broken  off,  and  he  was  so  nervous  and  in  such  a 
hurry.  He  didn't  see  how  she  lost  so  many  needles ;  but  if 
he  only  had  the  dear  children  to  take  care  of,  he  could  see. 
Why,  Glory  Ann  lost  a  dozen  in  one  morn-ing,  jest  inakin'  her 
doll  a  hood  and  a  petticoat.  Would  we  let  her  have  the 
needle  and  thread  ?  Mr.  Peacock  was  in  such  a  dreadful 
hurry."  Of  course  the  last  glimpse  which  \ve  ever  had  of  the 
needle  and  thread  was  when  we  placed  them  within  Mrs.  Pea 
cock's  fat  fingers. 

Twilight  would  fold  us  in  her  purple  pinions;  the  hour  of 
charmed  communion  would  come — the  hour  for  the  French 
lessons,  the  hour  for  the  portrait;  but  instead  of  the  quiet, 
the  calm  which  had  filled  these  hours  with  enchantment,  the 
only  hours  which  we  could  coax  from  toil  to  call  our  own,  we 
would  have  Mrs.  Peacock  and  her  endless  "  sez  I's."  Thus 
was  the  sacred  privacy  of  our  home  invaded,  almost  every 
hour  of  the  night  and  day,  by  an  amiable  and  yet  most  alien 
element.  Because  Mrs.  Peacock  was  just  the  mooney,  amiable 
woman  that  she  was,  was  precisely  the  reason  why  she  robbed 
us  completely  of  so  much  precious  time,  which  we  owed  to 
useful  and  ennobling  employments.  To  a  surly  woman  it 
would  have  been  easy  to  have  said,  with  a  face  of  steel :  "  We" 
are  busy,  and  have  no  time  to  attend  to  you  now."  But  to  a 
woman  sailing  in  dozens  of  times  a  day,  with  her  face  golden 
and  bland  as  an  unbeclouded  moon,  with  only  kindness  in  her 
eyes  and  in  her  heart,  although  we  had  not  a  moment  to 
give  her,  it  seemed  impossible  to  say:  "You  are  not  wel 
come." 

It  is  wonderful  of  how  much  of  our  life  work,  of  how  many 
priceless  opportunities,  of  how  many  rare  successes,  are  we 


George  Washington  Peacock  in  a  Fire.      179 

defrauded  by  very  amiable  persons  who,  in  all  their  existence, 
have  never  found  a  noble  work  and  purpose  of  their  own. 
They  are  the  leeches  of  society,  who  suck  away  the  life-blood 
of  our  usefulness.  Unless  rudely  shaken  off,  they.cling  to  us 
for  ever,  sapping  the  nerve  of  daily  endeavor,  fattening  on  our 
very  failures.  They  rob  us  of  our  garnered  minutes ;  they 
take  our  beautiful  brief  hours.  Night  comes  and  finds  us 
listless,  weary,  with  the  day's  inexorable  task  unfinished. 
The  nervous  force  which  would  have  made  us  perform 
it  well  is  all  exhausted ;  we  squandered  it,  listening  and 

talking  with ,  who  had  "A  pleasant  time ;  such  a  pleasant 

time." 

The  "  pleasant  time"  cost nothing.     has  nothing 

to  do  but  to  be  amused.  It  will  cost  us  a  sleepless  night  of 
toil,  a  morrow  of  lassitude,  and  of  over-work*  In  a  whole  week 
we  can  hardly  bring  up  the  arrears  of  the  lost  day.  In  the 
meantime  our  delinquency  will  incommode  others,  who  can 
see  no  mortal  reason  why  we  are  "  behind-hand."  We  knew 

this  when  we  sat  down  a  martyr  to  listen  to .     We  shall 

be  perfectly  aware   of  it   to-morrow,    when   another is 

ready  to  monopolize  the  day  ;  yet  because  we  like  both  of 

these 's,  in  neither  case  will  we  have  the  moral  courage 

to  say :  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  but  must  leave  you  now ;  my 
duties  are  imperative."  A  great  bane. to  men  and  women 
who  work,  and  must  work,  is  that  class  of  persons  who  are 
always  "  dropping  in,"  but  rarely  dropping  out ;  who  are  call 
ing  to  "stay  just  a  minute,"  but  who  manage  to  stay  the  whole 
day ;  inopportune  mortals,  who  never  know  when  to  come 
nor  when  to  go.  No  wonder  that  Voltaire  said :  "  The 
amount  of  time  which  people  spend  in  talking  is  frightful." 
I  thought  the  same  while  listening  to  Mrs.  Peacock.  From 
the  sound  of  her  voice  there  seemed  to  be  no  reprieve,  no 
relief. 

The  only  thing  which  she  never  exaggerated-  was  her 
account  of  George  Washington's  devotion  to  Hope.  When 
he  stood  before  her,  he  seemed  no  longer  to  possess  the 
characteristics  of  George  Washington  Peacock.  He  was  no 
longer  the  gruff,  swearing,  ruffianly  newsboy.  The  very 
needles  of  his  hair  seemed  soothed  and  softened ;  his  whole 
face  grew  more  human.  He  was  not  rough,  and  loud,  and  long 
in  speech  to  her ;  but  answered  in  awkward,  stammering 
confusion,  and  stood  as  one  in  a  daze,  as  if  dazzled  and  awed 
in  the  presence  of  a  new  and  beautiful  mystery. 

We  heard  a  loud  clattering  on  the  street-stairs  one  morning, 


180  Victoire. 

then  a  fiercer  clattering  in  the  hall,  as  if  the  house  was  being 
invaded  by  a  small  army,  followed  by  a  moment's  calm ;  then 
a  rap  on  the  door.  It  was  opened  and  there  stood  George 
Washington,  in  the  midst  of  a  troop  of  newsboys,  dirty, 
ragged,  their  rolls  of  papers  stowed  under  their  arms,  yet  all 
looking  as  eager  as  if  they  \verejust  entering  a  menagerie,  or 
any  six  cent  wild  beast  show. 

"  Here  she  is;  there  she  is!  look  at  her,  b'hoys  ;  say  agin, 
if  you  dares,  that  she  ain't  no  handsomer  than  the  wax  n'ggers 
in  the  shop-windows  what  they  put  the  shawls  on  and  the 
gran'  frocks  on  ;  say  agin  if  you,  dare  that  she  ain't  no  hand 
somer,  you  don't  believe,  than  them  dull  wax  things.  Say  it 
agin  if  you  dare,  and  I'll  take  you  into  the  street  and  give  , 
you  a  lickin',  every  one  on  ye  ;  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't.  Now 
say  it  agin,  if  yo«  dare." 

George  Washington  made  this  proclamation  standing  in  the 
door,  pointing  with  his  finger  at  Hope,  who  sat  sewing,  her 
long  curls  falling  over  her  work.  He  was  greatly  excited  ; 
the  end  of  his  nose  was  redder  than  ever  before,  as  if  ready 
to  burst  with  indignation.  The  remainder  of  the  boys  seemed 
to  have  no  inclination  to  "  say  it  agin  ;"  perhaps  they  did  not 
dare,  for  evidently  George  Washington  was  a  champion-king 
among  them,  and  they  hardly  cared  to  have  a  taste  of  his 
pugilistic  quality.  After  gazing  for  a  moment,  one  shouted, 
followed  by  all  the  rest  in  concert :  "  Yes,  she's  handsumer  ! 
Jack  Peacock,  you're  right ;  she's  handsumer  than  the  wax 
figger.  She's  handsumer  than  any  leddy  we  ever  see  in 
Broadway.  Does  that  suit  you,  Jack  ?" 

At  this  juncture  Mrs.  Peacock's  door  was  opened,  and  she 
came  down  the  stairs,  followed  by  eight  minor  Peacocks, 
Serepty  Louizy  in  her  arms,  screaming  at  the  utmost  limit  of 
her  voice,  louder  and  yet  louder  as  she  drew  nearer  the  realm 
of  sugar-plums. 

"  Mercy  on  us !  George  Washington,  what  is  the  hallooin'  ?" 

"  Mamm,'  taint  none  of  your  business.    I  wish  you  wouldn't 
allers  be  a  'pearin'  round,  when  you  ain't  wanted.     Rep,  you 
kittle  owl,  stop  your  screechin',  or  I'll  help  you  stop,"  said 
George  Washington,  evidently  nettled  by  the  sudden  inundat 
ing  efflux  of  all  his  family  constituents. 

There  was  a  just  perceptible  quivering  in  Mrs.  Peacock's 
motherly  voice,  as  if  her  motherly  heart  had  been  reached  and   • 
slightly  jarred,  by  George  Washington's  rude,  unfilial  repri 
mand,  as  she  said :  "  Til  tell  you  one  thing,  George  Washington , 
Miss  Hope  won't  never  take  any  notion  to  you  at  all,  if  you 


George-  Washington  Peacock  in  a  Fire.      181 

ain't  a  more  perlite  man  to  your  own  mother.  Miss  Hope  is 
a  lady,  every  inch  of  her." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Mrs.  Peacock  had  found  the 
spring  which,  if  only  touched,  reached  George  Washington's 
heart.  He  looked  through  the  open  door  at  Hope.  He  hung 
his  head  in  silent  shame.  His  companions  had  never  seen 
their  king,  Jack,  cowed  before.  They  looked  exultant,  as  if 
they  would  like  to  laugh,  but  did  not  dare,  lest  they  should 
receive  a  thrashing  for  the  same  in  less  than  five  minutes. 
"  Come,  boys,"  said  George  Washington ;  and  they  went 
away  much  quieter  than  they  came. 

Hope  was  the  daily  recipient  of  George  Washington's 
bounties.  He  never  presented  them  to  her  face  to  face,  yet 
never  left  room  to  doubt  for  whom  they  were  intended. 
Mysterious  newspapers,  illustrated  with  all  the  wonders  of 
the  day,  found  their  way  under  the  door-sill  during  the  hours 
of  darkness.  We  would  find  them  in  the  morning  with 
"  Miss  Hope"  scrawled  on  their  white  margin.  In  the  same 
auspicious  hour,  we  often  found  a  portly  bag  hanging  on  the 
outside  door-knob,  labelled  in  glaring  capitals :  "  Miss  Hope." 
Upon  exploring  its  depths,  we  usually  found  delights  for  the 
stomach,  in  the  form  of  peanut  candy,  lozenges,  peppermint 
drops,  cracked  nuts.,  and  mottoes ;  or  we  found  something 
pretty  to  wear ;  a  comb,  a  cornelian  cross,  a  little  bottle  of 
eau  de  cologne,  and  once  it  contained  a  pair  of  gilt  washed 
ear  rings,  garnished  with  green  glass,  which  must  have  cost 

the  stupendous  sum  of  twenty-five  cents. 

*•*  *  *  *  *  ** 

It  was  mid-winter.  For  many  days  it  had  been  fearfully 
cold.  One  night,  after  many  hours  of  restless  sleep,  I  woke 
with  a  choking  sensation  as  if  breath  was  departing,  while 
Morna  and  Hope  seemed  to  respire  as  if  suffocating.  It  was 
a  moonless  night,  very  dark  ;  I  could  not  see,  yet  felt  that  the 
room  was  swimming  in  smoke.  I  started,  as  I  saw  a  tongue 
of  fire,  a  narrow,  creeping  tongue,  curl  along  the  crevice  of 
the  door. 

"  Girls !  girls !  I  believe  that  the  house  is  on  fire,"  I  said, 
quickly.  They  had  wandered  too  far  away  on  the  other  side 
of  the  gate  of  visions  to  be  easily  recalled. 

"  Girls  !  Morna,  Hope,  come  !  Do  come  !  The  house  is  on 
fire.  Be  quick,  quick  !" 

They  were  awake  now.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  ;  tho 
cei'tainty  of  an  awful  truth  was  upon  us.  It  seemed  not  a 
Becond  before  we  passed  to  the  door,  gasping  for  breath.  It 


182  Victoire. 

was  through  the  door  which  led  into  our  sitting-room  that 
the  smoke  crowded,  and  the  tongues  of  flame  crept.  Would 
it  be  possible  to  save  anything  ?  I  opened  the  door  to  see. 
A  dense  ocean  of  smoke,  hot,  stifling,  rushed  through  the 
dead  silence  of  the  room  into  my  face.  The  wood-work 
crackled ;  the  blackness  was  seamed  with  fire.  Tortuous 
serpents  of  lurid  flame  writhed  on  the  walls.  Fitful,  fiery 
glimmers  darted  athwart  the  purple  gloom,  the  shadows  of 
the  ascending  demon,  who  had  not  yet  burst  into  the  room  in 
all  his  resplendent  blazing  fury.  It  was  too  late  to  save  a  thing  ; 
I  fell  back  suffocated  before  the  advancing,  thickening 
smoke. 

"  Quick,  or  those  children  will  be  burned  in  their  beds," 
said  Hope,  as  we  three  reached  the  stair  leading  to  the  next 
story  together.  In  an  instant  more  we  were  knocking  at  the 
door  of  the  Peacocks. 

"  Mr.  Peacock !  Mr.  Peacock !"  we  heard  the  lady  call ; 
"  Mr.  Peacock,  I  say." 

"  Well !  well !" 

"  Don't  you  hear  that  dre'ful  knockin'  ?" 

"  Do  let  me  alone  !    You're  allers  hearin'  knockins." 

"  The  house  is  on  fire  !  If  you  want  to  save  yourselves,  come 
quick." 

Alas !  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peacock  were  too  busy  talking  about 
the  probability  and  improbability  of  this  "  knockin' ''  to  hear 
the  agonized  call.  There  was  not  a  second  to  lose.  I  threw 
myself,  with  more  force  than  I  dreamed  of  possessing,  against 
the  door. 

"There;  I  guess  you'll  believe  thafs  a  knockin',"  I  heard 
Mrs.  Peacock  say  to  her  doubting  husband,  as  I  fell  upon  the 
floor  of  her  outer  room. 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  is  to  pay !"  groaned  Mr. 
Peacock,  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  on  earth  as  a  quiet 
sleep  for  him. 

We  were  all  in  the  room  by  this  time.  "The  house  is  on 
fire!  Unless  you  make  haste  the  stairs  will  be  in  flames. 
Then  there  will  be  no  way  of  escape,  not  even  by  the  roof; 
for  you  know  this  building  is  higher  than  those  around  it. 
Can't  we  get  these  children  out  safe?" 

"The  house  on  fire!"  murmured  Mrs.  Peacock,  dreamily, 
as  if  the  thought  was  swimming  pleasantly  ever  her  oblivious 
senses.  "  The  house  on  fire  ?  Then  our  names  will  be  in  all 
the  papers  in  the  mornin'." 

"  The  house  is  on  fire !   The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,  for  we 


George  Washington  Peacock  in  a  Fire.     183 

can't  all  get  out,  that's  sure,"  moaned  Mr.  Peacock ;  and  we 
heard  him  feeling  for  his  clothes  in  the  dark. 

"  The  house  on  fire !"  screamed  George  Washington,  as  he 
came  rushing  from  another  room.  "  Then  it's  time  to  go  to 
yellin'." 

"It  is  time  to  get  a  light.  Will  you  find  one,  George 
Washington  ?"  I  asked.  We  had  not  been  standing  still  all 
these  seconds.  We  were  taking  the  poor  little  Peacocks  from 
their  warm  nests,  as  fast  as  six  hands  could  in  the  dark. 
Mrs.  Peacock  had  arrived  at  something  like  a  state  of  con 
sciousness,  and  was  moving  as  fast  as  her  capabilities  would 
allow. 

"  Oh,  George  Washington,  can't  you  save  two  of  your  little 
brothers  and  sisters  ?  We  will  take  the  rest,"  implored  Hope, 
as  he  produced  a  light. 

"  If  I  don't  save  nothin'  else,  I'll  save  you.  I'll  die  in  the 
fire  if  I  don't,"  said  the  boy,  his  great  face  looking  ghastly 
white  in  the  light.  He  opened  the  window.  He  thrust  out 
his  head  and  shouted,  "  Fire !  fire  !  fire !"  in  a  clarion  voice. 
He  suddenly  stopped ;  we  looked,  saw  the  empty,  open  case 
ment,  but  no  George  Washington.  George  Washington  had 
vanished  through  the  third  story  window. 

"  George  Washington  !  George  Washington,  my  son  !  Oh, 
my  boy  !"  cried  Mrs.  Peacock  out  of  the  window,  forgetting 
the  rapidly  approaching  flames,  heedless  for  once  of  the 
screams  of  Serepty  Louizy,  thinking  only  of  her  first  born. 
We  were  trying,  with  Mr.  Peacock's  aid,  who  was  carrying 
Serepty  Louizy,  to  marshal  the  crying,  terrified  children  out 
of  the  room. 

"  George  Washington  !  George  Washington !"  again  cried 
Mrs.  Peacock,  leaning  far  out  9f  the  window.  A  voice 
came  up  through  the  darkness — his  voice  from  the  street  far 
below : 

"  Mamm,  stop  your  yellin' ;  take  them  young  un's  up  onto 
the  ruf  as  quick  as  blazes,  or  you're  all  goners.  Oh,  mamm, 
take  care  of  her.  I'm  comin'." 

We  all  rushed  to  the  hall.  It  was  too  late ;  we  could  not 
descend;  the  stairs  were  all  ablaze.  It  had  taken  too  long  to 
get  the  family  of  twelve  Peacocks  fairly  out  of  their  nest. 
It  was  well  that  Mr.  Peacock  had  not  followed  George  Wash 
ington's  example.  Had  he  done  so,  he  would  have  been 
shivered  into  a  hundred  pieces,  for  he  had  not  George 
Washington's  deep,  easy  cushions  of  flesh  to  fall  upon  ; 
and  if  he  had  seen  fit  to  have  killed  himself,  what  would 


184  Victoire. 

we  have  done  with  Glory  Ann,  whom  he  carried,  or  with 
Moses  whom  he  led  ?  Mrs.  Peacock  had  seized  Serepty  Lou- 
izy,  while  Morna,  Hope,  and  I  led  the  other  six  by  the  hands. 
Every  little  Peacock  screaming,  on  we  fled,  the  great  masses 
of  smoke  and  flame  rioting  fast  in  our  wake.  We  passed  the 
fourth  story,  we  reached  the  garret ;  we  gained,  but  with  no 
small  difficulty,  the  roof.  It  was  no  poetical  task,  in  the  dark 
ness,  in  the  bitter  cold,  to  lift  nine  helpless,  weeping  children 
out  upon  a  frozen  housetop.  Now  the  street  was  ram 
pant  with  half-frantic  people,  every  one  of  whom  knew  that 
there  was  a  family  inside  at  the  mercy  of  the  flames.  The  night 
was  filled  with  the  clangor  of  the  bells,  the  wild  alarm-bells ; 
fiercely  they  rang,  till  the  frigid  air  seemed  to  throb  and  pant 
with  their  eager  desire,  their  impetuous  pain.  The  fire-engines 
rattled  along  the  street;  firemen  shouted  hoarsely,  and  called 
and  answered  each  other  through  their  keen,  shrill  trumpets. 
Boys  screamed  fire,  until  their  voices  broke  like  the  tense  snow 
creaking  under  their  rebounding  feet.  The  multitude  groaned 
and  shouted.  The  engines  sent  up  their  jets  of  gushing 
water — still  the  fire  raged  on;  still  we  stood  among  the 
screaming  children,  on  the  high  housetop,  while  our  foe 
drew  nearer,  nearer.  We  heard  the  crackling  of  burning 
wood;  the  crash  of  glass  as  it  shivered  and  fell;  heard  the 
low,  throbbing  motion  of  pent  and  pressing  flame,  panting 
to  burst  unrestrained  into  one  all-enveloping  terror.  Clouds 
and  columns  of  purple  smoke  arose,  enwrapped  us,  and 
rolled  away  in  fiery  mist,  in  glimmering  banners  of  ensan 
guined  vapor.  Over  us  the  heaven  hung  molten  red ;  the 
black  air  was  sown  thick  with  fire-sparks,  uneasy  stars,  stir 
ring  in  the  gloom  of  Erebus.  The  fire  broke  in  lurid  splen 
dor  through  the  melting*  casements;  it  threw  knots  of  sul 
phurous  flame  to  the  very  housetop.  Blazing  scarlet,  tipped 
with  keen  blue  tongues,  vivid,  eager,  it  lapped  the  cornices 
at  our  feet.  In  flaming  pennants  it  streamed  against  the  sky, 
magnificent  in  fury;  then  falling  apart  in  disjointed,  glitter 
ing  chains,  dropped  back  into  the  night.  I  felt  as  if  in 
the  presence  of  an  omnipotent  yet  pitiless  foe.  I  was 
awed  by  the  might  of  a  terrific  power.  I  shuddered  as 
I  looked  on  those  around  me,  as  the  crying  of  the  children 
pierced  the  surrounding  terror.  I  had  ever  expected  to  die 
quietly  in  my  bed,  and  not  to  pass  away  in  any  heroic  or  ro 
mantic  manner  whatever,  and  although  probabilities  were 
slightly  against  it  this  expectation  did  not  forsake  me  now. 
No !  Deliverance  would  come ;  yet  I  am  not  sure  that 


George  Washington  Peacock  in  a  Fire.      185 

the  deliverer  assumed  before  my  vision  the  form  of  George 
Washington  Peacock. 

"  Save  them !  Save  them !  Save  them  I "  were  the  shouts 
which  came  up  from  below,  as  a  ladder  laid  its  blessed  head 
against  the  smoking  cornice.  In  another  instant  George 
Washington's  head,  half-buried  in  a  fireman's  hat,  appeared. 
"  I  said  I  was  comin'.  Come,  Miss  Hope,  come,  Miss  Hope, 
come  !  The  fire  is  almost  to  the  roof ;  no  tellin'  how  soon  the 
walls  '11  fall.  Come,  Miss  Hope  !" 

"  Oh,  George  Washington !  Don't  you  care  nothin'  about 
your  mother,  nor  Serepty  Louizy,  nor  "  cried  his 
mother. 

Hope  took  Mrs.  Peacock's  hand  and  walked  with  her 
carefully  to  the  edge  of  the  roof.  "  Save  your  mother,  your 
father,  all,  before  you  ask  me.  I  cannot,  will  not  come,  until 
the  last,"  she  whispered. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  save  them.  I'm  goin'  to  save  them  all !  I 
only  wants  to  save  you  fust.  I  wants  to  save  you." 

Mrs.  Peacock  had  no  intention  of  being  saved  last.  Already 
with  great  apparent  coolness  she  was  stepping  down  upon  the 
ladder  with  Serepty  Louizy  in  her  arms,  calling  :  "  Come,  Mr. 
Peacock,  bring  along  the  children.  Come,  young  ladies, 
there's  time  enough  if  you'll  only  hurry." 

The  ladder  was  fastened  to  the  roof  of  an  outbuilding  in  the 
rear.  A  man  stood  here,  and  another  midway  on  the  ladder, 
as  George  Washington  brought  them  down  ;  while  an  excited 
crowd  of  men,  women,  and  children  groaned,  cried,  and  shouted 
upon  the  ground.  The  fire  raged  most  furiously  in  the  front 
of  the  building,  where  it  originated,  but  pressed  fast  and  hot 
upon  the  rear ;  piercing  with  a  thousand  glittering  poniards 
the  purple  blackness  of  bursting  smoke.  Up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  through  the  dense  stifling  air,  passed  George 
Washington  in  rapid  succession,  at  each  return  shouting 
more  wildly  and  despairingly  for  "  Miss  Hope,"  yet  each 
time  rushing  away  with  the  child  which  was  proffered  him, 
as  if  he  felt  that  it  was  the  only  way  by  which  he  might  at  last 
save  her.  Eight  children  had  passed  down  ;  the  only  one  left 
was  Glory  Ann  in  her  father's  arms.  There  was  not  a  mo 
ment  to  be  lost. 

"  George  Washington,  here's  Gloi-y  Ann  ;  take  her.  Go, 
go,  young  ladies.  I  ain't  the  man  to  leave  three  ladies  to  burn 
alive  on  the  top  of  a  house,  or  to  be  smashed  in  the  ruins," 
said  Mr.  Peacock. 

"Think  of  your  children.     What  could  they  do  without 


1 86  Victoire. 

you  ?  There  is  no  one  to  need  us,  and  if  we  die,  may  it  be 
together!"  said  Morna  Avondale. 

"  We  are  not  going  to  die  here.  The  roof  will  neither 
burn  nor  fall  while  Hope  stands  on  it.  Go,  Mr.  Peacock  !" 
I  said.  Mr.  Peacock  went,  carrying  Glory  Ann  down  the 
tottering  ladder.  He  left  George  Washington  on  its  topmost 
round  screaming,  as  if  in  his  last  agony:  "Miss  Hope,  Miss 

Hope,  Miss  Hope  !  I  won't  live  if  you  don't ;  I'll  be  d d  if 

I  will." 

Morna  came ;  Hope  came ;  we  stood  upon  the  ladder  together. 
We  had  scarcely  gained  it  when  the  tire,  thick,  gorgeous, 
grand  in  its  fury,  swept  over  the  entire  roof,  and  sent  a 
thousand  spears  of  forked  flame  up  into  the  bloody  air. 

We  felt  the  scorching  heat  in  our  faces.  The  ladder  tot 
tered  under  our  feet ;  bright  threads'of  fire  curled  around  its 
bars ;  yet  we  passed  down  unharmed,  and  as  we  touched  the 
ground,  a  great  shout  went  up  to  heaven  from  the  vast  crowd 
which  had  seemed  breathless  in  its  silence  a  moment  before. 

George  Washington  rolled  on  the  ground  in  a  paroxysm  of 
joy,  laughing,  crying,  shouting  in  the  same  breath  ;  Mrs. 
Peacock  stood  amid  her  group  of  little  Peacocks  as  if  utterly 
satisfied ;  but  Mr.  Peacock,  poor  man,  might  have  looked 
happier.  Shelter  and  food  were  proffered  by  a  hundred 
voices, -and  only  when  I  heard  them  did  I  begin  to  realize 
how  great  had  been  our  exposure  on  that  fiercely  cold  night. 
Mr.  Peacock  accepted  the  offer  of  a  friend  who  lived  near,  and 
there  was  nothing  better  that  we  could  do  than  to  go  with 
them  and  wait  for  the  dawn. 

It  was  deep  morning  when  George  Washington  entered, 
looking  much  the  paler  for  the  exertions  of  the  night  before. 

"  Mainni,  I  hope  you'll  be  suited  now;  you've  got  your 
name  in  the  paper,"  he  said,  throwing  her  a  morning  journal. 
She  was  half  asleep  when  he  came  in,  but  quickly  emerged 
from  her  trance,  and  read  aloud : 

"  A  TENEMENT  HOUSE  in street  was  last  night  destroyed 

by  fire.  How  the  fire  originated  is  not  known.  The  second 
floor  was  occupied  by  three  young  ladies,  designers  by  pro 
fession,  whose  names  we  have  not  learned.  They  lost  every 
thing  but  the  garments  which  they  wore.  The  apartments 
on  the  third  floor  were  occupied  by  Mr.  Peacock,  liis  wife, 
and  ten  children.  The  entire  family,  as  well  as  the  lives  of 
the  young  ladies,  were  saved  through  the  heroism  of  a  lad  of 
twelve,  the  son  of  Mr.  Peacock.  The  brave  boy  descended 


George  Washington  Peacock  in  a  Fire.      187 

from  the  third  story  by  means  of  the  eaves  conductor,  which 
fortunately  passed  very  near  the  window.  He  procured  a  lad 
der  which  was  secured  in  the  rear  of  the  burning  building,  and, 
ascending  to  the  roof,  assisted  in  conveying  his  nine  brothers 
and  sisters  to  the  ground  in  safety.  Mr.  Peacock,  who  is  a 
worthy  man,  has  lost  everything  but  his  family.  We  trust 
that  the  Christian  public  will  administer  to  their  necessi 
ties." 

"  Well,  it's  worth  a  fire  any  day  to  have  such  a  notice  of  you 
in  the  paper,  and  to  have  people  what  are  somethin',  speak 
of  you  with  such  great  esteem.  I  haint  a  doubt  but  I'll  have 
nicer  things  offered  me  now,  than  I  had  afore.  That  aint 
sayin'  as  I  shall  take  'em,  though.  Serepty  Ann  Green  that 
was  oughtn't  to  be  takin'  other  folks'  cast-offs.  I  allers  knew 
my  name  would  get  into  print.  George  Washington,  come 
here  and  kiss  your  mother,  you  blessed  boy." 

"  Mamm,  I  don't  feel  like  kissin',"  said  George  Washington, 
in  a  much  softer  tone  than  usual,  looking  around  with  an 
anxious,  questioning  look. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  knows  who  you're  lookin'  for.  Allers  thinkin'  of 
Miss  Hope,  as'if  there  wasn't  nobody  else  in  the  world. 
Well,  Miss  Hope  is  sleepin'  safe  and  sound  ;  and  I  should 
think  that  you'd  be  glad  to  let  her  rest,  George  Washing 
ton." 

In  the  meantime  I  had  taken  up  the  newspaper,  as  Mrs. 
Peacock  had  read  the  only  article  which  contained  any  interest 
for  her.  I  was  looking  over  its  columns  in  that  listless,  weary* 
way  which  people  have  when  they  are  preoccupied  or  troubled, 
and  so  glance  at  the  daily  news  to  dissipate  their  irksome, 
thought,  knowing  of  course  that  it  can  contain  nothing  of 
personal  moment  to  them,  and  yet  feeling  a  vague,  undefined 
hope  that  it  may.  I  said  to  myself:  "  Well,  we  must  find 
other  rooms,  or  else  go  back  to  the  comfortable  home,"  shud 
dering  at  the  simple  thought.  I  turned  to  the  advertisements 
for  "  board"  and  "  rooms  to  let."  Ran  through  the  whole 
column,  finding  nothing  satisfactory ;  and  at  last  came^  to  the 
advertisements,  "  personal."  I  liked  to  read  them  sometimes, 
they  contained  such  odd  messages ;  and  so  my  eyes  ran  on 
carelessly,  wearily.  Suddenly  I  started  ;  I  shook  in  every  nerve 
as  if  I  had  received  a  galvanic  shock. 

"  Mercy  on  us  !  What's  the  matter  ?  You  look  as  though 
you  were  dead,  only  your  eyes.  I  couldn't  look  so  scared,  if 
the  world  fell  to  pieces,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Peacock. 


i88  Victoire. 

Did  I  really  see  it  ?  Did  I  read  aright  ?  Yes,  there  it  was, 
in  clear  print  before  my  eyes : 

"  VICTOIRE  V :  If  you  are  in  trouble  or  sorrow,  re 
member  that  you  have  one  friend,  who  must  remain  your 
friend  while  he  lives.  I  know  not  your  address,  yet  hope  that 
this  will  meet  your  eyes. 

"HENRI  R ." 


HENRI  ROCHELLE. 

If  I  was  in  "trouble  or  sorrow,"  Henri  Rochelle  was  the 
very  last  person  whom  I  wished  to  know  it.  Was  I  never  to 
escape  him  ?  Was  it  impossible  to  elude  his  keen  scent  ? 
Would  he  overtake  me,  confront  me,  hold  me  fast  at  last  ? 
These  questions  I  asked  as  the  newspaper  hung  in  my  nerve 
less  hand,  while  I  marvelled  over  the  message  which  it  con 
tained  for  me.  Why  had  he  waited  until  he  thought  that  the 
probabilities  were  all  in  favor  of  my  being  in  "trouble  or  sor 
row,  before  he  had  announced  his  continued  interest  in  my 
welfare  ?  Why  was  this  man,  of  all  others,  the  one  to  remind 
me  of  my  dependent  and  needy  condition  ?  Why  was  he, 
from  whom  I  wished  least  to  receive  it,  the  first  and  only  one 
to  offer  me  succor  and  consolation  ?  Was  he  to  be  cognizant 
of  all  my  misfortunes  ?  Was  he  in  my  destiny  ?  After  all, 
was  his  the  soul  towards  which  mine  was  tending — the 
elected  haven  into  which  the  great  tide  of  my  being  would 
inevitably  flow  ?  My  fervid  self,  must  it  surge  and  surge 
against  this  rock-bound  man  only  to  settle  at  last  becalmed 
and  cold  into  the  chill,  deep  reservoir  of  his  unfathomed  soul  ? 
A  man  of  marked  intellect,  of  rare  culture,  of  family  and  of 
fortune,  why  was  I  not  in  haste  to  leave  my  life  of  poverty 
and  obscurity,  to  become  his  dowered  companion,  his  chosen 
and  cherished  wife  ?  f  was  well  aware  I  might  look  far  and 
wait  long  to  find  another  man  in  all  respects  his  peer.  The 
golden  door  of  his  mental  palace  seldom  stood  ajar,  never 
swung  wide  open  to  pilgrims  and  wayfarers.  Only  the  in 
vited  dared  to  intrude,  and  only  a  few  of  the  elected  ones  who 
entered  felt  through  every  fibre  of  their  being  thoroughly 
Avanned  and  welcomed. 

Noble  and  good,  why  did  this  man  repel  ?    Not  because  I 


Henri  Rochelle.  189 

doubted  his  nobleness;  my  faith  in  him  had  never  wavered 
for  an  instant.  His  seeming  coldness  I  knew  arose  from 
no  real  coldness  of  heart.  Rich  in  his  own  self-sustaining 
power,  he  had  never  realized  the  heart-poverty  and  want  of 
weaker,  less  self-reliant  natures.  Henri  Rophelle  was  eclectic 
by  nature.  Filled  with  a  calm  benevolence  towards  all 
humanity,  his  personal  affection  was  won  by  few,  and  these 
most  sacredly  chosen.  He  could  not  lavish  upon  the  many 
the  love  which  all  his  life  he  had  garnered  inviolate  for  one. 
What  a  privilege  to  be  that  one  !  Then  why  did  I  feel  like 
flying  to  the  end  of  the  earth  to  avoid  him  ?  "  Do  you  dislike 
him  ?  Do  you  really  dislike  him  ?"  I  asked  suddenly  of  my 
palpitating  heart. 

It  started  at  the  imperious,  uncompromising  question,  but 
answered  quietly  enough,  No  !  I  do  not  dislike  him  ;  perhaps 
I  even  like  him  a  little.  I  cannot  quite  forget  how  noble  he 
is,  how  kind,  how  true;  His  face  with  its  clear  cut,  manly  fea 
tures,  with  its  strong,  calm  meaning,  often  fills  my  thought, 
if  it  does  not  warm  my  love.  I  esteem  him,  I  admire  him. 

I yes,  I  think  that  I  like  him,  but  I  do  not  love  him. 

His  nature  is  positive  to  mine.  I  feel  it  as  a  strong  force,  but 
it  does  not  touch  me  soothingly.  It  does  not  subdue  me, 
melt  me,  win  me,  like  that  voice.  Oh,  why  did  you  leave  me, 
lost  voice  ?  Oh,  why  did  you  forsake  me,  celestial  eyes,  in 
whose  splendor  the  soul  sat  enshrined !  The  voice  of 
Henri  Rochelle  does  not  penetrate  to  the  soft  spring-realm  of 
my  being,  whose  pulses  tingle  with  the  delicious  stir  of  youth's 
enkindling  ecstasy — a  realm  dewy  with  sympathy,  fragrant 
with  the  bursting  bloom  of  love  ;  but  in  the  dry  desert  of  the 
brain  he  fans  the  flames  of  pride  till  they  wax  angry  and  hot, 
calling  all  my  nature  to  revolt.  I  can  but  turn  in  haughty 
coldness  from  a  proffered  favor,  when  I  read  in  the  donor's 
asserting  eyes  the  satisfying  thought :  "  I  give  more  than  you 
can  return."  I  will  not  accept  a  gift  unless  in  my  own  way  I 
can  return  an  equivalent.  Ah,  that  is  why  I  recoil  from 
Henri  Rochelle.  He  ever  seems  to  say  :  "  I  love  you  best  of 
all  mortal  creatures,  yet  I  do  not  need  you  so  much  as  you 
need  me.  I  possess  all  the  qualities  which  you  lack,  the  ones 
which  you  most  essentially  need.  I  love  you,  I  want  you,  but 
I  can  live  without  you.  You  neither  love  me,  nor  want  me, 
yet  you  cannot  live  very  easily  without  me.  Disappointment 
does  not  dilute  one  drop  of  my  manhood.  I  am  no  less  the 
strong  man,  performing  no  less  the  strong  man's  work,  because 
Victoire  chooses  to  say  '  I  do  not  love  you.'  All  my  wounded 


i  go  Victoire. 

affection  oozes  away  through  the  rock-cut  channel  of  reason, 
leaving  my  heart  healed  and  whole.  All  my  superfluous  emo 
tion  flows  out  and  is  lost  in  the  manifold  avenues  of  manly 
activity.  When  I  rest  from  labor,  in  my  moments  of  musing, 
the  thought  will  press  in  upon  my  heart :  How  much  I  love 
her! — bul^it  is  ever  coupled  with  another — I  can  live  without 
her,  a  not  unhappy  or  inharmonious  life.  But  she  is  in  need 
of  me  ;  of  my  care,  of  my  protection ;  and  she  needs  my  guar 
dianship  not  the  less  because  she  protests  that  she  needs  it 
not  at  all.  She  is  a  woman  ;  I  cannot  forget  the  story  of  de 
pendence  which  this  fact  tells;  the  unrest,  the  suppressed 
power,  the  love,  the  yearning  for  sympathy,  infinite,  un 
realized — guerdons  of  the  power  and  weakness  of  her  sex. 
Rebel  she  may,  but  her  positive  soul  must  live  a  negative, 
life.  She  can  paint  her  life  into  a  picture ;  she  can  sew, 
with  a  burning  thought  inwrought  in  every  stitch ;  yet 
she  will  come  back  to  herself  at  last,  and  look  aghast  down 
into  the  great  void  of  her  own  being.  She  thinks  that  she  is 
wedded  to  art,  poor  child,  as  if  a  woman  could  live  upon  any 
abstraction.  Her  nature  is  not  half  awake ;  when  it  is  tho 
roughly  aroused,  when  she  feels  within  her  the  yearning  heart 
of  womanhood  ;  when  her  time  comes  to  love,  when  she  longs 
for  human  companionship,  for  human  sympathy  as  a  woman 
can,  we  shall  hear  no  more  about  art  being  her  husband.  She 
dreams  of  fame  ;  but  to  one  of  her  nature  fame  can  never  be 
anything  but  a  larger  love  ;  and  at  last,  if  the  world  comes  to 
praise  what  her  hands  have  wrought,  she  will  turn  away  un 
satisfied,  feeling  that  the  praise  of  many  is  naught  to  the  love 
of  one.  The  cumulated  tide  of  affection,  pent  so  long,  will 
overflow  at  last  and  drown  her  woman's  heart ;  mine  must 
be  the  soul  into  which  the  sweet  flood  shall  pour  itself.  Yes, 
it  is  time  to  find  .Victoire  Vernoid  ;  may  be  she  is  humbled  a 
little  now ;  not  too  proud  to  confess  herself  a  very  woman, 
needing  both  a  husband  and  a  home." 

Then  my  heart  answered  very  slowly  :  "  She  does  not  need 
so  much  a  shelter  for  her  body  as  for  her  soul ;  it  is  her  poor 
young  heart  that  wants  a  home."  You  cannot  give  me  that 
home.  Henri  Rochelle,  you  shall  not  find  me,  I  said,  starting 
in  defiance,  as  if  he  stood  before  me.  My  voice  rang  cold,  as 
when  in  days  gone  I  looked  into  his  penetrative  eye,  and 
said  :  "  Monsieur  Rochelle,  I  will  not  marry  you  ;"  yet  it 
quivered,  died  with  its  own  impotence,  for  it  heard  an  an 
swering  whisper,  silver-clear:  "He  is  in  your  destiny.  Of 
what  avail  is  it  to  fight  against  your  fate  ?" 


Henri  Rochelle.  191 

My  voice  aroused  Mrs.  Peacock,  who  had  rocked  herself 
and  Serepty  Louizy  to  sleep  in  a  little  chair,  whose  placid 
swaying  movement  made  heavenly  melody  compared  with  her 
own  lost  one  of  diabolical  memory.  I  was  obliged  to  the  re 
cent  fire  for  burning  up  that  chair.  I  had  never  listened  to 
it  without  a  conviction  that  a  little  squeaking  devil  was  im 
prisoned  in  each  rocker. 

"  Lor',"  said  Mrs.  Peacock  in  her  most  drowsy  tone,  "  was 
you  readin'  or  was  you  talkin'  to  yourself,  Miss  Victory  ?" 

"  I  was  talking  to  myself." 

"You  warn't  !"  she  said,. her  eyes  of  skim-milk  blue  swim 
ming  in  misty  wonder.  "  Don't  tell  me  such  unlikely  stuff. 
Why  when  I  was  Serepty  Ann  Green  of  Greentown,  my  aunt 
Jemimy  Jane  use't  allers  to  say  that  if  folks  talked  to  their- 
selves,  jest  as  sure  as  they  were  talkin'  they  were  crazy,  or 
goin'  to  be,  which  is  jest  the  same." 

"  There  are  few  people  that  have  not  a  thread  of  insanity 
running  through  some  portion  of  their  nature ;  even  you  are 
slightly  crazy,  Mrs.  Peacock." 

"  Me !  me !     Mercy  on  us,  when  I  was  Serepty " 

Here  she  was  prevented  from  repeating  the  information 
which  I  had  ample  reason  to  remember  by  this  time  (viz. 
that  she  belonged  to  the  Greens  of  Greentown)  by  the  en 
trance  of  Mr.  Peacock,  accompanied  by  a  handsomely  dressed, 
sweet-faced,  middle-aged  lady. 

Mr.  Peacock  had  been  seeking  another  tenement.  "  He  had 
succeeded  in  finding  one  which  he  hoped  might  do,"  he  said. 
He  thought  that  "the  sooner  they  got  into  it  the  better,  all 
round."  The  last  remark  was  addressed  especially  and  em 
phatically  to  Mrs.  Peacock,  who  looked  as  if  it  was  all  the 
same  to  her  easy  soul  if  they  never  got  into  it.  Indeed  she 
would  have  preferred  visiting  on  to  the  end  of  her  mortal 
days.  But  Mr.  Peacock,  who  had  a  "  realizing  sense "  of 
things,  was  eager  to  depart.  Poor  man,  he  was  unwilling  to 
wear  out  his  welcome.  Although  they  had  come  into  the 
home  of  one  of  his  own  relatives,  he  was  well  aware  that  an 
influx  of  eleven  cousins  at  once  was  more  than  even  a  reason 
able  person  could  be  cheerfully  burdened  with  for  any  great 
length  of  time. 

Here  the  stranger  lady  remarked  that  "  she  was  glad  to 
meet  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peacock.  She  had  read  of  their  misfortune 
in  the  morning  paper,  and  started  immediately  to  find  them. 
She  was  aware  that  the  people  who  inhabited  tenement-houses 
were  the  innocent  victims  of  a  mercenary  system ;  that  their 


192  Victoire. 

lives  were  recklessly  risked  by  avaricious  men,  who  knew 
when  they  built  their  wretched  houses  that  if  they  ever  caught 
fire  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  persons  who  lived  in  them 
to  escape.  She  had  been  in  deep  distress  on  account  of  the 
great  amount  of  suffering  and  death  occasioned  by  fires  during 
the  winter.  She  had  done  all  in  her  power  for  the  afflicted 
ones.  She  should  be  happy,  indeed  she  should  be  very  happy, 
if  she  could  in  any  way  relieve  the  necessities  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Peacock.  And  it  would  afford  her  especial  pleasure  to  make 
a  present  to  the  noble  boy  who  had  saved  the  lives  of  the 
entire  family." 

George  Washington  was  lying  upon  the  lounge,  his  face 
prone  upon  the  cushion,  where  he  had  buried  it  in  his  disap 
pointment  at  not  finding  Hope  in  the  room,  some  hours  before. 
Whether  asleep  or  awake  was  not  known  to  the  company.  Cer 
tainly  he  gave  no  visible  token  that  the  lady's  kind  compliment 
had  penetrated  into  either  ear's  tympanum. 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother's  darlin'  son  !  My  George  Washington,  you 
mean ;  that's  him  on  the  lounge.  True  enough  he  did  save  all 
his  family  an'  three  young  ladies  besides ;  that's  one  of  'em, 
Miss  Victory.  But  he  showed  who  was  nearest  an'  dearest 
by  savin'  his  mother  an'  this  blessed  derlin'  baby  fust,"  said 
Mrs.  Peacock,  treating  Serepty  Louizy  to  an  unpleasant  and 
unexpected  leap  in  the  air,  in  order  to  bring  her  into  nearer 
proximity  to  the  stranger  ;  while  the  one-year-old  young  lady, 
after  her  usual  mode  of  asserting  her  identity,  began  to  scream 
in  the  lady's  face. 

"  There !  there  !  muzer's  honey  bee  mustn't  frighten  the  lady 
with  her  music  ;  no  she  mustn't !  there,  there  !"  and  Mrs.  Pea 
cock  fell  back  to  a  violent  but  quiet  rocking,  still  musical  com 
pared  to  her  own  lost  household  bump  and  thump. 

"  Yes,  he  saved  his  mother  and  this  darlin'  baby  fust.  At 
sech  times  natur'  will  have  her  way,  an'  show  who's  nearest 
an'  dearest."  (At  these  words  a  spasmodic  twitching  of  the 
lounge-cushion  proved  conclusively  to  me  that  George  Wash 
ington  was  not  as  sound  asleep  as  he  might  have  been.)  "I'm 
sure  you're  a  lady  to  remember  my  George  Washington — 
yet  'taint  no  more  than  he  deserves.  You're  a  lady  to  re 
member  us  in  our  misfortin';  and  though  I  ses  it  myself,  I 
must  say  it,  it  ain't  no  more  than  we  deserve.  Folks  allers 
should  be  thought  of  in  misfortin'.  Not  that  we've  a  favor  to 
ask  ;  no,  not  a  favor ;  though  I  dusn't  say  we  wouldn't  accept 
one.  People  that  have  done  the  world  as  many  favors  as  the 
Greens  don't  ou^ht  to  be  afraid  to  take  a  favor  in  misfortin'. 


Henri  Rochelle.  193 

I  knows  I've  everything  to  be  thankful  for,  that  all  my  fine 
family  is  saved.  If  they  had  a  burned  I  should  have  clean 
died.  All  my  nine  children  is  asleep,  muzer's  dear  lambs.  I 
must  show  them  to  the  lady  afore  she  goes.  They  is  all  asleep 
but  Serepty  Louizy,  muzer's  honey  bee,  with  her  little  music 
box." 

The  lady's  face  now  wore  a  surprised  look,  but  she  said :  "  I 
shall  consider  it  a  privilege  to  restore  to  yourself  and  children 
a  few  of  the  comforts  which  you  have  lost." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we've  lost  so  many  comforts,  'taint  much  use  tryin' 
to  'place  'em  again.  We  don't  ask  it  of  nobody.  I'm  sure 
I  don't  ask  nobody  to  'place  my  nice  furnitur'  that's  burnt. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  ask,  yet  it  does  seem  as  if  I  couldn't  get  on 
Avith  any  that  wasn't  jest  as  nice.  There's  my  beau'ful  sofy 
burned  to  a  crisp,  the  beau'ful  sofy  I  brought  from  my  father's 
coun — • — .  Oh,  you  don't  know  that  I  belong  to  the  Greens 
of ." 

"  D — n  it !  (There,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  it.  I  told  her  I 
wouldn't.)  Confound  those  Greens !  Mamm,  I  wish  you'd 
forget  the  name,  so  you  couldn't  never  speak  it  again.  The 
Greens  ain't  no  better  than  the  Peacocks,  not  a  hair.  I 
wouldn't  give  a  cuss  for  the  whole  kit." 

"  George  Washington,  don't  you  see  the  lady  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Peacock,  in  a  tone  nearer  consternation  than  I  had  ever  heard 
her  speak  in  before.  She  had  thought  George  Washington 
asleep  or  she  would  not  have  dared  to  have  referred  to  the 
Greens,  or  her  father's  country-seat,  and  was  utterly  unpre 
pared  for  such  an  unexpected  torpedo  explosion.  There  upon 
the  lounge  sat  George  Washington,  his  black  eyes  looking  as 
if  they  would  explode  with  rage  ;  every  pugilistic  hair  on  his 
head  standing  erect,  the  berry  on  the  tip  of  his  nose  so  red  it 
seemed  ready  to  fly  in  any  direction. 

"  George  Washington's  just  waked  up.  The  fire  has  put 
him  out  of  his  mind  a  little  ;"  his  mother  said  apologetically  to 
the  stranger. 

"  I'm  right  in  my  mind,  or  I  wouldn't  know  that  you  is  lyin'. 
Mamm,  what's  the  use  of  tellin'  lies  folks  can  look  straight 
through  ?  Anybody  with  two  eyes  in  their  head  can  see  that 
you  never  had  a  gran'  sofy.  What's  the  use  o'tryin'  to  make 
things  out  gran'er  than  they  is  ?  Don't  you  think  other  folks 
has  eyes  ?  What's  the  use  o'  lyin'?  You  know  you  never  had 
a  sofy  worth  sittin'  on.  You  know  the  old  shack  you  had 
never  saw  your  father's.  Didn't  I  buy  it  at  a  Chatham  Square 
auction  ?  Didn't  I  give  just  fifty  cents  for  the  old  skeleton 

9 


194  Victoire. 

what  wasn't  worth  a  picayune  ?  Didn't  I  earn  the  money 
screechin'  on  Sunday  ?  I  aint  goin'  to  screech  no  more  on  Sun 
day.  Miss  Hope  says  it's  wicked,  and  if  she  says  it  is,  it  is. 
And  if  it's  wicked  to  screech,  and  if  it's  wicked  to  swear,  it's 
wicked  to  lie.  It's  wicked  to  call  an  old  frame  that  hadn't  a 
spear  of  haircloth  on  it,  nor  a  sign  of  a  cushion  but  rags,  a 
beau'ful  sofy ;  'sinuatin'  you'd  like  the  present  of  another  jest 
as  beau'ful ;  jest  as  if  folks  hadn't  eyes  !" 

Having  concluded  his  speech,  George  "Washington  again 
buried  his  face  in  the  lounge-cushion.  Mr.  Peacock,  unfortu 
nate  man,  looked  as  if  his  trials  were  greater  than  he  could 
bear.  Mrs.  Peacock  had  relapsed  into  her  usual  stare  of 
serenity. 

"  Mother's  darlin'  son  is  out  of  his  mind  ;  no  wonder,  after 
that  dreadful  jump.  The  lady  will  excuse  him,  mother  knows." 

"  Umph !"  groaned  George  Washington  from  the  depth  of 
the  lounge-cushion. 

The  look  of  surprise  on  the  lady's  face  by  this  time  had 
deepened  into  amazement.  Evidently  the  Peacocks  differed 
slightly  from  any  people  whom  she  had  ever  met  before. 

"I  hope  that  in  time  you  will  be  able  to  procure  another 
sofa  as  good  as  the  one  which  you  have  lost,"  she  said,  quietly  ; 
"  but  there  are  many  things  which  at  present  you  need  much 
more.  I  will  send  to  your  new  address  some  bedding  and 
comfortable  clothing  for  your  children,  and  if  you  will  give 
me  his  measure,  I  will  have  a  good  new  suit  ordered  for  your 
son.  And  will  you  take  this  little  gift  from  me,  my  boy,  for 
being  brave  and  noble  ?  I  hope  that  you  will  read  it,  remem 
ber  it,  and  obey  its  precepts.  Begin  now  to  honor  your 
father  and  mother,  that  your  days  may  be  long  in  the  land 
which  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee,"  said  the  lady,  going  to 
George  Washington,  and  taking  from  her  muff  a  Bible  bound 
richly  in  embossed  velvet. 

There  was  a  sensitive  cord  somewhere  in  George  Wash 
ington's  soul  which  vibrated  exquisitely  to  the  sound  of  a 
sweet  voice,  to  the  rhythmic  flow  of  melodious  syllables.  He 
was  fascinated,  subdued  by  the  nameless  charm  outflowing 
from  an  harmonious  presence,  and  from  gentle,  high-bred 
manners;  yet  in  the  midst  of  his  very  fascination  the  poor  boy 
felt  wofully  ashamed  because  conscious  of  an  utter  want  of 
these  gracious  gifts  in  himself. 

He  arose  to  his  feet  when  the  lady  began  to  address  him, 
but  when  he  saw  the  Bible,  he  hung  his  head  in  great  con 
fusion. 


Henri  Rochelle. 

"  I  don't  deserve  it ;  I  knows  I  doesn't !"  he  exclaimed. 
*'  I  doesn't  deserve  any  such  handsum  talk,  nor  no  sich  hand- 
sum  book.  I'm  a  misrable  chap,  so  I  am.  And  I  can't  help 
it,  cause  Mamm  ses  I'm  marked,  and  I  believes  I  is.  O  dear, 
I'm  such  a  mis-rab-ble  chap  !"  Here  the  words  began  to  blub 
ber  from  his  mouth,  and  the  tears  to  bubble  from  his  eyes, 
and  again  he  plunged  his  face  into  the  lounge-cushion. 

"  If  you  are  as  good  as  you  can  be,  praying  and  trying  all 
the  time  to  be  better,  that  is  all  that  is  required  of  you,  my 
child,"  said  the  sweet  lady  soothingly,  as  she  laid  the  Bible 
down  by  his  side.  Then  remarking  to  Mrs.  Peacock  that  the 
bedding  should  be  sent  to  their  new  abode  before  night,  with 
a  gracious  bow  and  winning  smile,  she  gathered  up  her  grace 
ful  robes  and  departed — one  of  God's  human  angels,  whose 
lives  of  heavenly  love  save  this  city  from  the  doom  of  Sodom. 

She  left  a  dreary  blank  in  the  room.  Alas,  when  some 
people  go,  what  a  great  want  they  leave  behind  them  !  A 
dead  silence  followed  her  departure.  Mrs.  Peacock,  holding 
Serepty  Louizy,  swayed  slowly  back  and  forth,  with  her  eyes 
shut,  while  Mr.  Peacock  looked  as  afflicted  as  usual. 

"  George  Washington,  I  wish  you  didn't  sass  your  mother 
afore  folks,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  wish  I  didn't,"  sobbed  George  Washington  from  the 
lounge-cushion.  "  And  I  wish  that  Mamm  didn't  make  me  so 
blazin'  mad,  tellin'  yarns  that  folks  can  see  clean  through  that 
they  ain't  true.  'Tain't  no  use." 

"  No,  'I  wish  you  wouldn't  make  us  all  silly  and  ridiculous 
afore  folks,  Miss  Peacock,"  said  her  husband,  deprecatingly. 
Whatever  the  internal  weaknesses  of  his  family  might  be,  Mr. 
Peacock  was  too  true  a  man  to  wish  them  to  be  made  public. 

"  Lud !"  said  his  wife,  opening  her  eyes  with  peffect  com 
posure  ;  "  if  you  don't  talk  as  if  you  thought  you  was  some 
body,  nobody  will  treat  you  as  if  you  was  somebody." 

Before  night  we  separated  from  the  Peacocks.  In  parting, 
Mrs.  Peacock  observed  that  she  should  still  continue  to  neigh 
bor;  indeed  she  should.  "A  few  blocks  of  houses  wasn't 
agoin'  to  keep  her  from  neighborin'  with  ladies.  There  was 
George  Washington,  we  should  probably  see  him  every  day  ; 
she  didn't  believe  that  he  could  live  through  a  day  without 
seein'  Miss  Hope  ;"  adding,  as  her  special  private  conviction, 
which  we  "mustn't  mention  for  the  world,  that  the  Sunday- 
school  was  takin'  effect,  that  George  Washington  was  under 
a  mighty  powerful  conviction  for  his  sins ;  and,  for  her  part,  she 
should  pray  hard  that  the  burden  might  be  removed." 


196  Victoire. 

We  went  into  a  single  room  to  which  we  had  been  directed 
by  Mr.  Peacock.  "  It  wasn't  good  enough  for  us,"  he  said, 
"  but  perhaps  we  could  make  it  do  until  we  could  find  a  bet 
ter."  Alas !  we  could  no  longer  afford  a  better  one.  We  car 
ried  nothing  into  this  little  room  but  ourselves.  If  the  other 
apartment  had  been  plain,  this  was  naked.  The  few  articles 
of  home  comfort  which  we  had  gathered  about  us,  our  entire 
wardrobe,  the  new  pictures,  the  white  rose — all  had  been 
destroyed  ;  and  yet  the  fierce  winter  was  upon  us.  We 
shrank  from  the  thought  of  going  into  any  new  dreary  board 
ing-house  in  our  bereft  condition.  Besides,  "board"  had 
reached  an  almost  fabulous  price ;  and  the  cheapest  would  be 
a  dearer  mode  of  living  than  getting  along  in  a  single  room 
alone  by  ourselves. 

My  heart  sank  within  me  as  I  thought  of  my  lost  pictures — 
the  portrait  of  my  mother,  the  death  scene  at  Les  Delices,  the 
others  almost  as  dear,  still  hanging  unclaimed  under  the  ara 
besque  arches  of  Mrs.  Skinher's  luxurious  parlors.  "  Oh,  shall  I 
ever  get  them  back  ;  will  they  ever  be  mine  again  ?"  I  moan 
ed,  almost  in  despair.  The  hundred  dollars  which  had  been 
deposited  in  the  bank  in  the  autumn,  as  so  much  towards  their 
redemption,  had  received  no  addition  thus  far  during  the  win 
ter,  although  it  might  very  soon,  if  this  calamitous  fire  had 
not  occurred.  Our  housekeeping  outfit  had  cost  something ; 
and  then,  just  as  we  were  fairly  settled,  the  employers  of 
Morna  and  Hope  had  said :  "  No  more  work  until  spring." 
The  city  swarmed  with  hungry  seamstresses.  Hundreds  were 
working  for  a  pittance  which  would  not  save  them  from  death ; 
hundreds  more  were  besieging  offices  of  law,  their  eyes  wild 
with  watching,  their  voices  dissolved  in  tears,  imploring  men 
in  power  fb  secure  to  them  the  meagre  wages  for  toil,  of  which 
they  had  been  defrauded ;  hundreds  more  were  workless, 
homeless,  ready  to  die.  The  whole  system  of  women-em 
ployment  was  false,  cruel,  iniquitous.  God  never  intended 
that  the  needle  should  be  an  instrument  of  torture  to  woman. 
Sewing  is  one  of  her  most  natural,  genial,  poetic  employ 
ments.  Her  most  delicate  fancies,  her  most  gorgeous  dreams, 
her  purest  aspirations,  her  very  might  to  do  and  suffer,  she 
has  wrought  into  the  garments  which  her  hands  have 
fashioned.  Ever  since  Eve  stitched  together  the  pretty  fig- 
leaf  apron,  women  have  taken  to  sewing  as  naturally  as  birds 
to  singing.  Sewing  is  one  of  the  sweetest  symbols  of  her 
femininity.  It  is  the  synonym  of  peace,  of  fireside  chatter,  of 
evening  quiet,  of  heart  communion,  and  of  household  joy. 


Henri  Rochelle.  197 

The  selfishness,  the  wickedness  of  her  employers  have  made 
sewing  the  dreadful  thing  it  is  ;  changed,  it  into  a  sorrow,  a 
curse,  a  shame. 

I  could  not  be  blind  to  all  this  truth,  simply  because  my 
personal  experience  had  been  a  happy  exception.  When  I 
saw  how  women  worked,  and  how  they  were  paid,  I  was 
amazed  at  my  good  fortune.  I  was  paid  according  to  the 
value  of  my  work — paid  as  an  artist.  But  alas !  Morna  and 
Hope  were  ground  down  to  the  lowest  starvation  prices. 
Could  I  forget  or  grow  indifferent  to  that  fact  ?  Their  work 
growing  less  and  less  remunerative,  at  last  had  failed  entirely. 
Had  they  died  in  the  eifort  they  could  not  have  supported 
themselves  with  their  needle. 

May  this  faint  reflex  of  the  life  of  three,  bring  you  en  rapport 
with  the  thousands  of  orphaned  and  homeless  girls,  who  in 
every  city  and  town  in  the  land  are  striving  to  live  by  the 
toil  of  their  hands.  If  you  could  only  probe  down  to  the 
buried  heart-life  of  that  thin,  wan-faced  young  girl  who 
every  day  passes  your  door,  you  would  find  a  story  before 
whose  crimson  coloring  Victoire's  words  would  show  cold 
and  grey.  "  She  is  neatly  dressed  ;  I  think  that  she  is  well 
off,"  you  say :  "  She  has  all  which  in  her  condition  of  life 
she  can  need  or  expect."  She  has  all  that  she  expects,  but 
not  all  that  she  needs.  Because  in  barter  for  her  bloom,  for 
the  very  aroma  of  her  youth,  she  managed  to  buy  for  herself 
through  the  dull,  dragging  year,  food  and  shelter,  don't  say 
that  she  has  all  that  she  needs.  She  needs  love  and  beauty  ; 
she  needs  sunlight  and  joy.  Perhaps  she  is  cursed  with  a 
hunger  for  the  beautiful,  and  there  is  no  sadder  curse  than  to 
be  born  with  the  finest  susceptibility  to  its  subtlest  shades, 
the  most  exquisite  appreciation  of  its  infinite  delights,  while 
it  lies  for  ever  beyond  your  mortal  reach.  To  have  all  your 
nature  in  conflict  with  your  fate,  that  is  hard.  Those  frail 
and  fettered  fingers  can  hardly  wrest  from  the  clenched  fist 
of  fate  the  bread  which  perishes.  Blessed  is  the  man  who 
with  words  of  manly  kindness  fills  this  fainting  heart  with 
cheer,  till  summer  rain,  the  songs  of  summer  birds,  the  serene- 
ness  of  summer  sunlight  fills  its  thirsting  void  with  blessed 
ness  ;  the  man  who,  according  to  his  ability,  gives  honorable 
employment  to  the  toiling  women  whom  he  knows ;  saying 
not,  when  the  work  is  done  :  "  There  are  your  wages,  just  half 
what  I  pay  my  men  ;  you  are  a  woman,  you  know." 

Blessed  is  the  woman  who  stretches  her  fair  jewelled  hand 
out  into  the  cold  air  of  the  worjd,  gently  drawing  into  her 


198  Victoire. 

sumptuous  home  a  sad,  solitary  sister,  whose  only  claim  to 
love  is  her  humanity,  the  seal  of  her  womanhood  stamped  ou 
her  white  brow  and  in  her  beseeching  eyes — 

"  For  a  woman,  poor  or  rich, 
Despised  or  honored,  is  a  human  soul, 
And  what  her  soul  is,  that  she  is  herself." 

\ 

Life,  the  present,  the  future,  now  thrust  into  my  face  every 
incentive  for  effort,  for  unceasing  toil.  Now,  if  ever,  must, 
gold  be  wrung  from  the  sterile  veins  of  the  passing  days. 
Once  before  1  had  scarcely  rested  or  slept,  as  I  painted  away 
my  soul  in  a  dream  of  beauty.  But  now,  for  something  far 
better  than  simply  satisfying  my  selfish,  beauty-loving  heart,  I 
toiled,  yet  alas !  not  long.  My  enfeebled  constitution  had 
never  regained  its  lost  elasticity.  The  buoyancy  of  untouched 
health,  the  exuberant  vitality  of  an  overflowing  life,  were  no 
longer  mine.  Exposure,  anxiety,  privation,  found  it  not  hard 
to  conquer.  Bravely,  hopefully,  I  battled  with  my  foes,  work 
ing  and  saying :  "  To-morrow  I  shall  feel  better,"  until  the  anni 
versary  of  my  first  sickness  came ;"  then,  in  obedience  to  some 
mysterious  law,  nature  sank  in  prostration,  and  disease  again 
struck  "to  the  roots  of  life.  One  year  before,  the  full  flood  of 
being,  suddenly  rebuffed,  rolled  in  upon  my  brain  in  torturing 
madness ;  but  now,  already  so  far  spent,  it  only  seemed  to 
sink  quietly  away.  The  deadly  typhus  flowed  in  my  veins  ; 
surely  I  yielded  to  its  power,  sinking  down,  down,  down.  It 
fills  my  memory,  the  shadow  of  a  horrible  dream.  Oh, 
those  awful  days !  famine  as  well  as  fever  came  into  that 
little  chamber.  Sickness  brought  to  me  its  alleviation  ;  it  be 
numbed  my  senses  to  the  woes  around  me.  In  my  state  of 
semi-consciousness  even  the  room  itself  seemed  far  away,  and 
yet  I  had  a  dim  perception  of  all  occurring.  I  could  see 
Morna  place  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  with  one  look  of  her 
great,  sad  eyes  silence  the  voluble  tongue  of  Mrs.  Peacock, 
who  still  persisted  in  "neighboring,''  and  in  coming  to  inquire 
after  "poor  Miss  Victory."  I  could  see  George  Washington, 
with  shaking  hand,  lay  down  on  the  stand  beside  my  bed  some 
little  delicacy  which  I  could  not  touch  ;  see  hirn-look  at  Hope, 
then  depart  in  tiptoe  silence,  only  to  burst  into  a  paroxysm 
of  boisterous  wet-ping  the  moment  he  reached  the  outside  of 
the  door.  Morna  and  Hope  !  One  of  their  beloved  faces 
always  hovered  above  me.  Wrapped  in  shawls  to  keep 
themselves  from  perishing,  I  saw  them  chafe  and  breathe 
upon  each  other's  hands,  striving  to  warm  the  blue,  frozen 


Henri  Rochelle.  199 

fingers  before  coming  to  perform  some  tender  office  of  love 
for  me.  In  the  hush  of  the  night,  when  she  fancied  me  asleep, 
I  could  hear  Morna  moan  low  and  long,  as  if  the  stifled  agony 
of  her  heart  must  have  vent ;  hear  the  drear  silence  broken  by 
Hope's  whispered  prayers :  "  Dear  Saviour,  spare  our  sister ! 
Let  the  night  pass.  Give  us  the  morning.  We  believe  in 
Thee,  with  all  our  heart."  Even  then  I  knew  that  I  should 
live. 

Still  I  seemed  to  sink  further  and  further  away  from  life ; 
seemed  already  enfolded  in  the  apathy  of  death ;  I  moved 
not,  spoke  not,  yet  knew  all.  Thus  I  opened  my  torpid  eyes 
one  bitter  morning.  The  frost-rime  in  pearly  crystallizations 
lay  in  thick  embossage  upon  the  little  windows.  There  was 
no  warmth  of  fire,  no  token  of  breakfast ;  the  table  with 
snowy  cloth,  the  aromatic  coffee,  the  creamy  rolls,  sweet  as 
ambrosia  in  the  mornings  gone,  were  all  wanting.  Morna  and 
Hope,  close  together,  crouched  where  there  should  have  been, 
a  fire. 

"  Oh,  Morna,  that  moan  goes  through  my  heart!"  whispered 
Hope. 

"  I  can't  help  it ;  it  will  come." 

"  Try  to  believe,  Morna.     God  will  take  care  of  us  to-day." 

"  I  know  that  I  am  wicked.  I  am  almost  tired  of  hearing 
you  say  that.  If  He  is  going  to  take  care  of  us,  I  wish  that 
He  would.  The  rent  is  due  to-day,  and  faith  won't  keep  that 
dreadful  agent  from  the  door.  He  would  not  seem  quite  so 
frightful  if  it  were  not  for  her.  Oh,  if  she  should  die !  If 
he  should  thrust  us  in  the  street." 

"  God  won't  let  him  do  so,  Morna." 

"  He  has  done  so  to  others,  he  is  so  fierce." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  sound  of  heavy  feet  upon  the 
stairs,  mingled  with  the  thump  of  a  ponderous  cane,  and 
in  an  instant  after,  three  peremptory  raps,  which  seemed  to 
come  from  the  hard  head  of  that  instrument,  resounded  on  the 
rattling  pannels  of  the  door.  Morna  opened  it,  and  there 
stood  an  elderly  man  with  bristling  hair  and  a  blazing  face. 
He  was  half-intoxicated,  and  one  of  those  whom  liquor  makes 
a  demon. 

"  Young  woman,  your  rent  is  due,  and  I  have  come  after 
it." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  for  we  have  not  got  it.  I  would  have 
brought  it  to  you  if  we  had  it." 

"  If  you  had  it !  That  is  a  pretty  story.  If  you  can't  pay 
your  rent,  what  business  have  you  to  hire  a  room  ?" 


2oo  Victoire. 

"  You  know  we  have  been  able  to  pay  it  until  now.  On 
account  of  our  sister's  illness  we  have  exhausted  all  that  she 
had  saved,  and  we  cannot  get  any  work." 

"  Can't  get  any  work !  that's  a  likely  story.  Go  out  to 
service  or  to  the  poor-house,  where  you  belong.  But  your 
room  or  your  rent  I  will  have.  Pretty  set  of  tenants  I  have 
to  deal  with  ;  no  wonder  times  are  hard."  And  he  brought 
down  his  cane  upon  the  floor  as  if  he  wished  to  shiver  the 
whole  house. 

"  No  work  and  no  money  !  That's  not  to  the  point !  I  want 
your  rent !  A  shiftless  set  I  have  to  deal  with.  I'll  see  the 
poor  commissioner.  I'll  have  you  taken  to  Blackwell's  Island, 
sick  gal  and  all!" 

"  Please  don't,  don't  speak  so  loud ;  she  is  very,  very  ill," 
implored  Morna. 

"  Not  so  loud  ?  Speak  like  that  to  me,  huzzy  ?"  he 
shouted,  lifting  his  gold-headed  cane  as  if  to  strike  her. 
Morna  quailed  before  him.  But  before  he  could  utter 
more,  another  step,  a  distinct,  manly  step,  light,  rebounding, 
as  if  eager  with  expectation,  was  heard  rapidly  approaching  ; 
and  in  the  rear  another  step,  which  I  knew  was  George  Wash 
ington's.  At  these  sounds  the  wolf  at  our  door  moved  away, 
growling  loudly  about  the  "  county  commissioner,"  "  the 
poor-house,"  and  "  to-morrow." 

"  Can  I  find  Mademoiselle  Vernoid  here  ?"  asked  a  clear,  sono 
rous  voice,  which  swept  with  an  electric  thrill  through  all  my 
wasted  life,  filling  my  veins  with  new  vitality,  kindling  within 
me  at  once  terror,  and  shame,  and  joy — bringing  me  back  to  a 
keen  realization  of  the  past,  the  present,  the  future.  It  was 
the  voice  of  Henri  Rochelle. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  you  could  find  Miss  Victory  here  ?  Isn't 
that  her  lyin'  there,  what  looks  as  though  she  were  dead  ?" 
said  George  Washington,  respectfully,  who  by  this  time  had 
thrust  himself  in  at  the  door. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  he  came  to  my  .side,  and  took 
my  wasted,  lifeless  hand  in  his.  I  felt  a  live,  warm  tear  drop 
on  my  cold  forehead.  Pride  seemed  dead.  My  lips  were 
unsealed. 

*'  Mon  ami,  man  ami,  6tes-vous  venu ,?"  I  whispered. 


Henri  Roche  lie's  Ideal  Woman.  201 


HENRI   KOCHELLES   IDEAL  WOMAN". 

Henri  Rochelle  parted  from  me  when  not  a  tint  had  faded, 
nor  a  petal  fallen,  nor  a  breath  of  perfume  been  drained  away 
from  the  unfolding  blossom  of  my  early  youth.  I  left  him 
filled  with  presumptuous  hope,  believing  without  doubt  that 
fate  would  give  me  all  that  I  asked  ;  that  life  would  promptly 
gratify  my  most  exacting  and  imperious  demands.  I  left  him, 
deriding  with  quiet  arrogance  his  manly  proffer  of  a  house 
hold  woman's  quiet  lot.  Zenobia  would  do  something  great. 
She  would  create  her  own  kingdom,  an  oasis  amid  the  desert 
of  the  world,  fairer  than  Palmyra  of  old.  And  if  ever  one 
reigned  with  her  in  this  empire  she  declared  it  should  be  the 
soul  of  her  most  sacred  choice,  of  her  maidenhood's  first 
consecrated  love ;  else  would  she  live  on,  regnant,  solitary,  to 
the  end  of  her  days. 

Two  years  had  scarcely  passed,  and  Henri  Rochelle  crossed 
the  ocean  to  find  Zenobia  abject  in  chains  ;  not  in  the  golden 
fetters  of  a  clement  Aurelian,  but  in  the  death-linked  chains 
of  two  pitiless  and  ignoble  conquerors — Disease  and  Poverty. 
All  Zenobias  wear  chains  at  last.  They  bow  their  discrowned 
heads  above  their  fallen  sceptres,  and  beweep  the  splendor  of 
their  lost  dominions  ;  or  they  hold  out  their  slender  wrists  for 
the  gilded  manacles  of  love,  merging  into  subdued  and  wifely 
women,  seeking  no  more  a  worldly  kingdom  or  a  crown.  But 
few  lie  so  utterly  crushed  under  the  heel  of  base-born  des 
pots  as  did  this  young  throneless  Zenobia  on  whom  Henri 
Rochelle  now  looked.  She  had  been  too  much  of  a  woman 
after  all,  unaided,  to  wrest  sceptre  or  empire  from  the  grasp 
of  Destiny. 

The  untaught  child  of  two  years  ago,  where  was  she  with 
her  wilful  ways  ?  Where  the  glory  of  her  sheeny  hair  ?  The 
scintillations  of  her  prodigally  proud  eyes  ?  The  haughty  curl 
of  the  vermiUion  lips,  which  would  curl  in  scorn  lest  they 
should  melt  into  tenderness — the  full  veins  flowing  with 
joyous  life,  the  delicious  curves,  the  budding  bloom  of  dawn 
ing  youth — where  were  they  now?  The  short,  clammy 
curls  clung  close  to  the  cold  brow ;  the  eyes  were  dim  with 
suffering ;  the  white  rigid  lips  seemed  already  humbled,  stif 
fened  in  death,  even  while  they  brokenly  murmured :  Mon 
ami,  mon  ami,  etes-vous  venu  ? 

When  I  whispered  these  words  Lucifer  was  as  dead  to  me 
as  if  he  had  never  been  born  in  the  universe.  All  my  girlish 

9* 


2O2  Victoire. 

defiance,  all  my  garnered  pride,  were  as  if  they  had  never 
existed. 

"  Oui!   Victoire,  ma  chere,je  viens  d?  avoir  soin  de  vous." 

I  heard  these  words  of  protective  tenderness  fall  from  the 
lips  of  Henri  Rochelle.  Once  they  would  have  filled  me  with 
resentment ;  now  they  only  brought  back  to  my  memory 
suddenly,  sweetly,  an  existence  which  seemed  long  departed. 
Once  more  stood  before  me  the  brother  of  Beatrice,  Frederick's 
friend,  my  friend,  whom  neither  coldness  nor  time  had  changed. 
The  narrow,  frozen  chamber  stretched  away  into  the  wide 
frescoed  parlor  of  Les  Delices;  the  icy  winter  air  melted 
to  the  softness  of  a  fragrant  August  afternoon — that  after 
noon  when  I  sat  by  the  open  window,  looking  out  upon 
the  guardian  mountains,  upon  the  cone-crested  pines,  upon 
Frederick's  grave,  quiet  under  their  tremulous  shadow ;  when 
I  sent  back  to  the  manly  voice,  as  calmly  kind  to  me  then  as 
now,  my  girlish  words  of  lofty  scorning.  I  forgot  the  two  long 
years  of  life  among  strangers,  in  which  I  had  learned,  for  the 
first  time,  the  dreariness  and  weariness  of  poverty  and  pain  ; 
forgot  that  Henri  Rochelle  had  prophesied  both  my  failure 
and  my  fate  ;  forgot  how  I  had  shunned  him,  how  I  had  tried 
to  hide  myself  away  from  his  kindness ;  forgot  all,  save  that 
this  hour  of  extremity  had  restored  to  me  a  trusted  friend. 

Would  time  bring  no  revulsion  ?  A  revulsion  had  always 
followed  my  kindest  thoughts  for  him.  His  manly  care  I 
had  met  with  rebellion  ;  his  manly  affection  with  cold  rejec 
tion.  Whether  I  would  do  the  same  again,  in  that  hour  I 
neither  knew  nor  thought.  If  the  old  look  of  assurance  still 
radiated  from  his  fine  features,  my  dim  eyes  could  not  see  it. 
If  the  calm  face  still  said :  "  You  are  mine,"  pride  no  longer 
stood  mailed,  armed,  declaring  :  "  I  am  not."  I  was  weak 
and  weary,  nigh  unto  death ;  the  voice  of  old-time  kindness 
was  passing  sweet ;  that  was  all  I  knew. 

He  sat  down  by  my  bedside  and  counted  my  faltering  pulse 
with  the  calmness  of  the  practised  physician.  .He  lifted  the 
sickly  curls  from  my  cold  forehead  with  his  moist,  warm, 
health-giving  hand,  and  said :  "  My  child,  you  are  going  to 
get  well." 

At  these  words  a  placid  gratitude  diffused  itself  through 
my  dumb  heart.  I  nestled  my  forehead  closer  to  the  electric 
fingers,  so  soothing,  so  medicinal,  so  life-quickening  seemed 
their  touch. 

"Yes !  my  little  Victoire  is  going  to  get  well  and  be  herself 
again.  Let  me  see  ;  she  is  scarcely  twenty,"  he  said,  as  if  to 


Henri  Rochelle's  Ideal  Woman.  203 

himself.  "  The  precociously  blossoming  brain  has  drained  the 
juices  of  the  slender  spring-time  stem.  She  needs  dew,  and 
sunshine,  and  wooing  air,  to  win  her  back  to  bloom.  Only 
twenty!  a  mere  child  in  years.  No;  I  shall  not  let  the  bud 
wither  away  like  a  wasted  flower." 

He  followed  my  asking  eyes,  which  had  wandered  beseech 
ingly  to  the  remotest  corner  of  the  room,  into  which  Morna 
and  Hope  had  shrunk  away  as  if  they  deemed  themselves 
sad  intruders.  Henri  Rochelle  arose  and  went  to  them.  He 
took  the  hand  of  each,  and  said  :  "  I  am  glad  that  Victoire 
has  found  such  sisters.  You  have  shared  your  hard  fate 
together,  poor  children ;  but  there  is  a  better  fortune  in  store 
for  all  of  you  ;  you  shall  not  be  separated."  (Already  he  had 
commenced  to  plan  for  our  future.)  "My  name  is  Rochelle. 
I  have  been  Victoire's  friend  for  years.  Her  only  brother 
while  he  lived  was  my  dearest  companion." 

"  We  thought  that  Mr.  Rochelle  had  come,"  said  Morna, 
in  alow  tone,  "because  you  look  just  as  Victoire  described 
Mr.  Rochelle." 

"  Indeed  !  then  she  did  talk  of  me,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  must  change  physicians.  I  shall  make  you  a  doctor's 
call  to-morrow,"  he  said,  as  he  came  back  to  my  side,  and 
took  my  hand  as  if  parting. 

"  Don't  go  !  don't  go  !"  were  the  words  which  surged  up 
from  my  deepest  heart ;  but  they  did  not  reach  the  surface, 
or  dissolve  themselves  in  sound.  I  knew  that  the  sunny  world 
of  France,  which  his  coming  had  brought  back  to  me,  would 
vanish  with  him  through  the.  door ;  that  all  he  would  leave 
behind  him  would  be  the  little  frozen  room,  the  sick,  sad 
faces,  and  sadder  hearts ;  yet  the  quick  thought,  "  You  have 
no  claim,"  would  not  let  me  say  :  "  Don't  go  !" 

He  prepared  medicine  and  told  Morna  when  and  how  it 
should  be  given.  "  It  will  stir  her  sluggish  vitality,"  he  said. 
"  It  will  give  her  new  strength  with  which  to  seize  life.  Life  has 
well-nigh  slipped  away  from  her,  but  she  will  regain  it  in  all 
its  beauty.  Watch  her  well  till  to-morrow."  With  a  kind 
smile  for  Morna  and  Hope,  with  the  healing  hand  again  laid 
lightly  on  my  brow,  as  if  in  silent  blessing,  he  departed. 

Not  by  word,  or  look,  or  manner,  had  he  given  the  slightest 
token  that  he  knew  the  room  was  without  fire  on  that  winter 
day,  almost  without  furniture.  He  did  not  wound  one  of  the 
sensitive  hearts  which  throbbed  within  those  dreary  walls  by 
brusquely  inquiring:  "  Do  you  need  anything?" 

Henri  Rochelle,  with  his  fine  perception  of  refinement  and 


204  Victoire. 

sensibility  in  others,  his  innate,  intuitive  kindness,  was  never 
in  the  minutest  particular  less  than  the  gentleman.  Had  he 
found  us  inside  of  palace  walls,  he  might  have  greeted  us  with 
the  same  sympathetic  gentleness,  but  could  not  have  covered 
us  with  more  thoughtful,  delicate  consideration. 

He  had  gone  but  a  little  while  when  George  Washington 
Peacock  stole  quietly  in  (he  had  learned  to  walk  without 
making  a  noise),  laden  with  good  things,  yet  evidently  only 
oppressed  by  the  burden  of  a  profound  secret.  He  was  also 
the  herald  of  a  ponderous  load  of  coal,  a  portion  of  which 
soon  cast  a  ruddy  glow  upon  the  frosty  walls.  "  That  old 
wolf  ain't  a  comin'  no  more  to  knock  his  old  stick  at  this  door 
as  if  he  wanted  to  kill  Miss  Victory  stun'  dead.  Pie  ain't  a 
comin'  no  more  to  scare  you  and  Miss  Hope.  I'm  knowin'  to 
the  fact,"  said  George  Washington.  Yet  no  one  asked  him 
how  or  why  he  knew  the  fact. 

The  morning  brought  my  new  physician,  the  after  mornings 
brought  him,  and  day  by  day,  slowly  yet  surely,  I  drew  nearer 
to  health.  Save  in  these  daily  brief  professional  calls  we  saw 
nothing  of  Henry  Rochelle.  Promptly  to  the  moment  he 
came,  and  as  promptly  went  away.  Without  a  breath  of 
vulgar  hurry  or  bustle,  he  still  appeared  like  one  full  of  occu 
pation,  who  had  few  minutes  to  give  to  pleasure,  however 
harmless.  He  often  entered  the  room  with  a  pre-occupiedf 
air,  as  if  his  thought  was  full ;  then  he  stood  before  me  the 
very  Henri  Rochelle  of  lang  syne — cold,  statuesque.  I  sus 
pected  that  he  had  other  patients,  and  therefore  was  not  at 
all  surprised  when  he  said  one  morning:  "I  have  a  very  dan 
gerous  case  upon  my  hands,  which  for  the  present  claims  my 
undivided  attention.  I  mention  it  because  it  is  possible,  barely 
possible,  that  I  may  not  be  able  to  call  on  you  to-morrow. 
If  not,  you  will  remember  the  reason,  Victoire.  I  like  to 
watch  your  daily  progress,  but  my  absence  will  not  retard  it, 
as  you  are  beyond  danger  of  relapse." 

The  universe  held  no  object  which  could  make  him  forget 
his  duty.  The  tenderest  instinct  of  his  heart  could  not  inter 
fere  with  the  business  ot  his  brain. 

In  the  meantime,  comfort  after  comfort  stole  almost  unawares 
into  our  little  chamber.  No  one  seemed  cognizant  of  our 
wants ;  yet  they  were  all  anticipated,  supplied  almost  before 
we  were  conscious  that  they  existed.  George  Washington 
Peacock  still  continued  the  silent  bearer  of  dispatches,  and 
each  time  he  appeared,  seemed  more  burdened  with  the  weight 
of  his  secret.  His  oppressively  conscious  look  said :  "  Do  ask 


Henri  Rochelle's  Ideal  Woman.  205 

me  who  sent  the  gift  ?"     But  no  one  asked.     A  painful,  em 
barrassing  spell  rested  upon  all. 

But  after  weeks  of  silence,  one  morning  I  called  George 
Washington  to  my  side  and  inquired :  "  Where  did  Mr.  Ro- 
chelle  find  you,  George  ?" 

"  He  found  me  in  the  street ;  there  warn't  nowhere  else  he 
could  find  me." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,  George ;  will  you  ?" 

"  I  ain't  to  tell  some  things.     I  ain't  to  say  nothin'  about 

nothin'.     I'll   be ,  there !    I  didn't  say  it ;    did  I,  Miss 

Victory  ?     Miss  Hope,  I  didn't  say  it !  and  I'll ,  there  ! 

I  didn't  say  that,  nuther,  and  I  ain't  never  goin'  to,  that's  what 
I  wanted  to  say." 

"Tell  me  in  few  words  as  you  can  where  Mr.  Rochelle 
first  found  you,  that  will  be  a  good  boy,  George  Washing 
ton." 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  usin'  few  words.  I  use  what 
words  come.  I  can't  use  no  other.  Don't  no  handsum' 

words  come  to  me,  not  a ,  there  !  I  didn't  say  that— and 

I  won't  say  that ;  I'll  be .     Oh,  dear  !   'tain't  much  use 

tryin'.    I  don't  know  why  I  was  made  such  an  ugly  chap,  when 
no  one  else  ain't.     I  never  could  make  it  clear  why  I  had  to 

be  marked  wicked,  anyhow.     I'd  like  to  know,  I'll  be  . 

Oh,  there  !  I  didn't  say  it." 

"Miss  Victoire  is  very  weak  and  can't  listen  long ;  tell  her 
as  soon  as  you  can,  George,"  said  Morna  kindly. 

"  Mr.  Rochel'  seed  me  in  the  street ;  there  warn't  nowhere 
else  to  see  me.  Wasn't  I  standin'  in  the  city  park  afore  the 
City-Hall  ?  Wasn't  I  yellin'  an'  restin'  from  yellin'  ?  Didn't 
I  have  a  mighty  batch  of  Times  to  sell  ?  Didn't  I  want  to 
sell  'em  orful  ?  Didn't  I  want  to  buy  some  oranges  for  Miss 
Victory,  and  give  all  the  rest  of  the  money  to  Miss  Hope, 
'cause  I  knowed  she  needed  it  ?  Didn't  I  holler  louder  nor 
ever  I  hollered  afore :  Morniri*  Times  !  'rival  of  the  Hung'ry  ! 
I  know'd  it  wasn't  a  lie,  but  the  truth.  The  Hung'ry  had 
come  to  port,  and  the  truth  helped  me  to  holler  louder.  I 
know'd  Miss  Victory  needed  the  oranges,  that  all  of  yer  need 
ed  the  money  ;  that  helped  me  to  holler  louder.  'Course  I  had 
to  rest,  but  when  a  lot  of  fine  gentlemen  kem  along  from  the 
post-office,  didn't  I  put  in  like  thunder  ?  Oh,  how  I  hollered  ! 
an'  when  the  gran'est  gentleman  of  all  kem  along,  didn't  I 
almost  split  my  throat  yellin'  '  Morning  Times,  'rival  of  the 
Hung'ry !' 

"  I  know'd  he'd  stop,  'fore  he  got  up,  and  didn't  he  ?   And 


206  Victoire. 

wasn't,  he  Mr.  Rochel,  the  finest  gentleman  in  town  ?  An* 
when  I  han'ed  him  the  paper  didn't  he  look  straight  at  my 
little  finger,  an'  not  at  the  paper  at  all  ?  And  didn't  the  finger 
have  the  ring  on  that  Miss  Victory  gev'  me  for  learnin'  a 
hundred  verses  in  St.  John  ? 

"  '  Where  did  you  get  that  ring  ?'  sez  he. 

" '  It  was  guv  to  me,'  sez  I. 

"  '  Who  guv  it  to  you  ?'  he  said,  quick  as  lightning. 

"  'Miss  Victory  Verner,'  sez  I, '  the  lovliest  lady  in  the  land, 
but  one :  'cause  I  'membered  how  many  times  you  said : 
'  George  Washington,  you're  a  good  boy,' jest  the  same  as  if  you 
didn't  know  I'm  marked,  for  mamm  sez  I'm  marked,  and  I  be 
lieves  I  is.  It's  so  all-tired  hard  to  be  good,  I'll  be there! 

I  didn't  say  it !  but  I  did  say  Miss  Victory  is  the  lovliest  lady 
in  the  land  but  one,  and  bust  out  a  bellerin'.  I  thought  how 
sick  you  were,  Miss  Victory;  how  like  enough  you'd  die  ;  so  I 
bellered  and  bellered.  And  when  he  said,  '  Will  you  show 
me  where  she  is  ?'  didn't  I  start  as  swift  as  ever  I  could,  a 
bellerin'  an'  bellerin',  an'  couldn't  stop,  an'  didn't  stop  ?  Didn't 
a  whole  crowd  come  rushin'  after,  to  see  what  in  hell  was  the 
matter  ?  Oh,  dear !  I  didn't  mean  to  say  it ;  oh,  dear !  'taint  no 
use  tryin'  to  leave  the  swearin'  out,  when  the  devil's  in  you. 
But  oh,  Mr.  Rochel  haint  got  no  devil  in  him.  He's  the  finest 
gentleman  what  draws  the  breath  of  life.  Don't  he  pay  me 
for  every  step  I  take,  when  I  don't  want  nothing,  jist  cause  it'.s 
him  ?  Ain't  he  gran'  ?  Ain't  he  splendid  ?  Haint  I  ben  to  his 
rooms?  Ain't  they  all  crammed  with  books,  and  stuffed  with 
picturs  ;  an'  all  hung  with  velvet  curtains  the  color  of  gold  ? 
Oh,  if  I  could  be  just  who  I  want  to  be,  wouldn't  I  be  ]Mr. 
Rochel,  an'  wouldn't  I — (here  he  looked  at  Hope)  'Taint  no 
use  sayin'  nothin'  about  nothin'.  " 

"  You  have  said  enough,  George,  and  said  it  as  well  as  you 
could  ;  that  is  being  a  good  boy.  Don't  be  discouraged,  we 
all  like  you,"  said  Morna. 

"  Miss  Hope  don't  care  nothin'  about  me ;  an'  I  wouldn't  f 
I  was  her,  'cause  I  ain't  no  such  sort  a  chap  she  ought  to  like," 
replied  the  boy  mournfully. 

The  revulsion  came — came  with  the  full  consciousness,  the 
clear  realization  of  my  situation.  Chagrin,  shame,  humiliation, 
agony,  smote  my  soul  low  at  once.  My  calmness,  resignation, 
quiescence,  had  all  been  made  of  the  torpor  of  disease.  A 
captive,  helpless,  almost  senseless,  was  it  strange  that  I  had 
been  the  passive  recipient  of  his  bounty  ?  Now  the  great 


Henri  Rochelle's  Ideal  Woman.  207 

flood  of  calm  was  surging  with  returning  life.  A  second  time 
had  life  come  back  after  having  been  swept  almost  hopelessly 
away,  but,  in  its  return,  where  was  the  joyous  rush,  the  elastic 
rebound  of  its  morning?  Where  was  the  glorious  health,  the 
unquestioning  faith  in  my  own  future,  which  made  me  so  gaily 
audacious  when  I  first  proclaimed:  "  Monsieur  Rochelle,  I  will 
not  marry  you  ?"  I  knew  nothing  of  life  then — of  the  life  of 
toil,  and  want,  and  weary  waiting.  Alas  !  I  knew  something 
of  such  a  life  now.  Then  all  success  had  seemed  possible  to  my 
proud,  un wounded  nerves,  to  my  believing  brain,  to  my  hila 
rious  heart. 

Now  I  had  learned  that  mine  was  not  the  strong,  supple 
muscle  which  sways  and  bends  to  the  rough  breath  of  life,  but 
the  finer  fibre  which  is  bruised  by  its  friction  and  broken 
by  its  pressure.  Yes,  I  knew  now  what  I  did  not  then,  that  a 
brave  will  cannot  always  sustain  a  fainting  body ;  that  it  is 
much  easier  to  dream  of  working  out  a  splendid  destiny  than 
it  is  to  do  it,  at  least  for  a  woman.  Then,  when  I  returned 
the  kindness  of  Henri  Rochelle  with  haughty  scorn,  I  had  at 
least  this  palliation,  that  personally  I  owed  him  nothing.  But 
now  what  did  I  not  owe  him  ?  Shelter,  care,  life,  he  had 
given  me;  more  numberless,  nameless  kindnesses  he  daily 
poured  into  my  life.  How  could  I  be  unkind  or  ungrateful 
now  ?  How  could  I  ever  repay  him  ?  Ah,  that  was  the  humi 
liating  question  !  In  vain  I  consoled  myself  with  the  thought 
that  soon  I  should  be  able  to  go  to  work  again.  If  I  did, 
years  would  pass  before  I  could  pay  my  heavily  accumulated 
debts  ;  and  then  how  frail  had  become  the  tenure  of  my 
health  ;  it  had  failed  me  utterly  twice  in  the  time  of  sorest 
need  ;  how  could  I  depend  on  it  now  for  vigor  to  battle  and 
to  conquer  necessity !  Vainly  pride  writhed  with  the  new 
pain  of  its  daily  inflicted  wounds  ;  vainly,  as  all  my  early 
vaunting  pressed  back  upon  my  memory.  Oh,  if  it  only  had 
been  some  one  else,  any  one  else,  upon  whom  I  had  become 
dependent !  Why  had  not  destiny  spared  me  this  humi- 
liati  n  ?  His  was  a  man's  triumph,  a  man's  every-day  tri- 
umpli. 

How  many,  who  watch  a  young  girl  to  go  forth  alone  to 
meet  the  advancing  host  of  life,  to  struggle,  to  conquer,  to 
bear  off  the  palm  of  victory  unaided,  see  her  flag  and  faint 
before  the  contest  is  half  won  !  She  has  a  brave  heart,  a  soar 
ing  soul ;  but  she  has  also  the  frail  feminine  fibre  that  was 
made  for  peace,  not  for  strife.  The  manly  muscle  must  be 
•wedded  to  those  quivering  nerves,  the  manly  blood  must 


208  Victoire. 

strike  its  vigor  through  those  fainting  pulses  ;  the  manly  arm 
must  lay  the  foundations  of  her  earthly  home,  that  she  may 
afterwards  garland  it  with  all  the  graces  of  her  melodious 
nature. 

More  than  Henri  Rochelle  had  ever  prophesied  of  defeat 
had  come  to  me.  On  the  borders  of  death  I  became  con 
scious  of  this  fact,  and,  as  I  came  slowly  back  to  life,  with 
what  an  eager,  jealous  eye  I  watched  his  face,  to  see  if  it 
gave  token  of  his  triumph.  But  no  ;  I  never  saw  but  one  look 
in  his  eyes  as  he  turned  them  upon  me — a  look  of  thoughtful, 
almost  anxious  tenderness.  Now  I  was  apprised  of  all  the 
royal  magnanimity  of  his  manhood.  In  reply  to  my  scornful 
vaunting,  he  once  uttered  calm  words  of  unvarnished  truth  ; 
but  he  was  incapable  of  exulting  over^the  fact  that  time  had 
proved  him  right  and  me  wrong.  He  could  never  have  uttered 
the  womanish  words  :  "  There,  I  told  you  so  !  It's  just  as  I 
prophesied  !" 

Instead,  he  had  never  alluded  to  our  past  life.  If  the  punc 
tilious  politeness  of  the  stranger  no  longer  characterized  his 
manner,  neither  did  the  familiarity  of  the  intimate  friend.  By 
no  look,  nor  word,  nor  action  did  he  claim  any  added  defer 
ence  in  return  for  the  daily  blessings  with  which  he  covered 
us.  He  seemed  to  attach  no  importance  whatever  to  what 
he  did,  but  to  do  it  as  a  simple  matter  of  course.  If  I  failed 
to  find  in  his  expressive  eyes  the  old  assertion :  "  You  are 
mine,"  it  was  because  it  was  now  fused  into  all  his  actions.  I 
was  too  weak  to  be  an  antagonist ;  I  was  unequal  to  positive 
rebellion  ;  there  I  lay,  subjugated,  helpless.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  wasted  features,  in  the  tremulous  voice,  to 
call  back  to  that  good  man's  face  the  past  look  of  certain  pos 
session.  Yet  I  felt  its  existence  none  the  less  because  it  was 
now  invisible.  It  surrounded  him  like  an  atmosphere ;  it  per 
vaded  all  he  did  ;  yet  in  that  intangible  way  which  gave  me 
no  right  to  seize  it  or  resist  it,  although  it  sank  into  my 
nature  with  the  unerring  force  of  conviction. 

More,  when  I  looked  on  him  in  a  dim,  mysterious  sense,  I 
felt  that  I  belonged  to  him.  I  sickened  with  the  thought ;  I 
tried  to  banish  it,  stifle  it,  deaden  it ;  in  silent  anguish  I  prayed 
to  be  delivered  from  it,  yet  in  vain.  I  only  looked  into  the 
fkce  of  that  calm,  strong  man,  to  feel  that,  at  some  time  in  the 
history  of  our  souls,  my  very  being  had  been  given  to  him  as 
his  inalienable  portion.  Indistinct  as  a  vaguely  remembered 
dream,  it  seemed  to  lie  far  back  in  my  consciousness — that  time 
in  the  past  eternity  when  my  soul  was  committed  to  kis  keep- 


Henri  Rochelle's  Ideal  Woman.  209 

ing.  I  belonged  to  him  !  Against  this  truth,  dimly  revealed 
to  me  as  it  had  ever  been,  I  had  so  persistently  rebelled. 
I  wished  the  privilege  of  seeking  my  own  destiny..  I  resisted 
that  which  came  to  me  unsought  and  undesired. 

Still  how  immeasurable  seemed  the  distance  between  us. 
Could  he  ever  draw  me  until  I  should  stand  by  his  side,  on 
that  high  isolated  plane  ?  Could  I  pass  into  his  sphere  of 
thought  aud  feeling,  and  live  contented,  happy  ?  My  con 
stant  benefactor,  my  tried  and  tender  friend,  my  soul  melted 
in  gratitude  while  I  thought  of  him ;  but  it  was  only  grati 
tude  ;  for  when  I  remembered  that  already  he  had  almost 
won  the  right  to  triumph  and  take  me,  I  grew  rigid,  stony. 
I  knew  that  the  moment  was  near  at  hand  when  once  more 
he  would  talk  to  me  calmly,  kindly,  of  my  future  ;  that  he 
patiently  waited  the'hour  when  I  should  have  gained  sufficient 
strength  to  endure  such  a  conversation  without  undue  excite 
ment.  There  was  no  danger  of  his  being  in  haste.  Henri 
Rochelle  never  hurried.  He  was  made  in  the  image  of  God 
in  this  respect  as  well  as  others. 

My  convalescence  brought  another  cause  of  anxiety.  Dur 
ing  my  extreme  illness,  Morna  had  lost  every  personal  con 
sideration  in  her  solicitude  for  "me;  but  with,  my  dawning 
health  came  her  reaction  also.  Sadder,  more  despairing  than 
ever  grew  the  glorious  eyes. 

"  This  life  of  dependence  must  cease ;  it  is  too  dreadful,"  at 
last  she  said.  "  It  is  not  so  distressing  for  you,  Victoire  ; 
you  are  receiving  kindness  from  a  tried  and  honored  friend — 
one  whom  you  trust  without  fear,  one  who  loves  you.  Your 
gratitude  will  be  to  him  a  recompense ;  and  if  it  were  not, 
when  you  regain  your  health,  you  can  repay  him  in  hard 
gold.  It  is  very  different  with  us.  We  have  no  prospect  of 
ever  being  able  to  repay  him.  We  have  no  claim  upon  him  ; 
none.  We  are  only  here  by  sufferance.  Mr.  Rochelle  is  kind, 
very  kind  ;  it  is  not  in  his  nature  to  be  otherwise  ;  besides,  he 
never  forgets  that  we  are  dear  to  you.  But  I  cannot  accept, 
much  less  take  advantage,  of  his  generous  kindness.  You  no 
longer  need  constant  nursing ;  thus  you  won't  think  me  ne 
glectful  if  I  go  and  see  if  it  is  possible  to  find  employment ; 
will  you,  dear  ?  There  must  be  a  change  !" 

"  Yes,  there  must  be  a  change  !"  I  said,  after  her.  My 
feelings  were  so  near  akin  to  hers,  I  could  not  utter  a  word 
of  remonstrance. 

She  wheeled  my  couch  to  the  window,  a  soft,  soothing  couch, 
which  entered  the  room  unannounced  and  took  up  its  abode 


2io  Victoire. 

with  us  without  explanation.  She  hovered  about  me,  caressing 
my  head,  adjusting  my  pillows,  performing  numberless  little 
unnecessary  attentions  which  only  the  most  delicate  thought, 
the  tenderest  heart  could  devise,  and  all  in  the  quiet,  unde 
monstrative  manner  so  like  her,  lingering  as  if  she  longed  to 
coin  an  excuse  to  stay;  linger-ing  as  if  she  dreaded  nothing 
so  much  as  to  depart,  and  yet  suddenly  wrenching  herself 
away  at  last. 

"  You  know  that  I  will  come  back  as  soon  as  I  can,"  she 
said,  reopening  the  door  after  she  had  passed  out,  as  if  she 
half  reproached  herself  for  going,  yet  knew  not  how  to 
remain.  For  an  instant  her  eyes  pervaded  me  with  their 
dewy,  radiant  mournfulness  ;  then  the  door  closed  softly  (Mor- 
na  never  slammed  doors),  and  I  listened  sadly  to  the  low 
retreating  fall  of  her  little  feet. 

Hope  had  yielded  to  Morna's  entreaties  not  to  forget  all 
that  she  knew,  and,  until  employment  could  be  found,  went 
daily  to  glean  what  crums  of  knowledge  she  could  find 

at  No. public  school.  I  was  left  alone.  There  was  a 

pleasant  stir  of  life  in  my  veins — new,  low,  and  quiet.  To  be 
sure  I  had  nothing  particular  to  live  for  ;  the  world  did  not 
need  me,  I  knew  ;  yet  I  liked  to  live,  I  was  glad  that  I  was 
getting  well.  There  is  a  delight  in  simple  sensuous  existence, 
and  we  are  never  so  conscious  of  it  as  when  our  senses  are 
just  loosed  from  the  festering  chains  of  disease.  The  light 
of  day,  the  breath  of  nature,  how  deliciously  they  thrill  along 
our  pain-quickened  nerves  ;  how  healingly,  how  lovingly  they 
kiss  our  wasted  faces !  A  resplendent  March  sun  looked  full 
upon  mine  with  the  first  touch  of  spring  warmth  in  its  glory. 
I  nestled  in  its  radiance.  I  drank,  and  drank,  yet  felt  that  I 
could  not  drink  enough  of  its  life-inspiring  splendor.  Quies 
cently,  dreamily,  as  invalids  will,  I  watched  the  golden  motes 
dance  in  a  shimmering  shaft  of  light  which  smote  my  couch 
through  the  broad  interstice  of  a  halt-open  shutter. 

I  was  employed  in  this  wise  when  Henri  Rochelle  came  to 
make  his  morning  call.  Evidently  at  this  time  he  was  trou 
bled  by  no  very  dangerous  case.  His  mind,  so  often  abstract 
ed  and  absorbed,  seemed  not  at  all  pre-occupied.  Instead  of 
departing  according  to  his  custom  as  soon  as  his  professional 
questions  were  asked  and  answered,  he  sat  down  with  an  air 
of  ease  and  leisure  which  indicated  that  he  did  not  intend  to 
trouble  his  watch-pocket  for  some  time  to  come.  Since  the 
morning  in  which  he  first  beheld  me,  after  our  years  of  sepa 
ration,  he  had  never  shown  any  warmer  interest  in  me  than  a 


Henri  Rochelle's  Ideal  Woman.  211 

brother  might  have  manifested  ;  he  never  had,  by  his  manner, 
made  me  feel  that  he  was  making  me  the  special  object  of  his 
observation  or  thought.  But  now  I  was  conscious  that  his 
mind  was  concentrated  upon  me  ;  that  he  was  thinking  of  me 
alone,  not  of  his  patient,  but  of  Victoire.  I  grew  wretch 
edly  self-conscious  and  embarrassed.  Although  I  had  seen 
him  every  day  for  weeks,  for  the  first  time  I  sat  face  to  face, 
thought  to  thought,  with  the  Henri  Rochelle  of  the  past. 
How  I  longed  to  bring  back  the  half-slumbrous  minute  just 
departed,  in  which  I  forgot  that  there  was  a  Henri  Rochelle, 
or  that  aught  existed  in  the  universe  save  golden  motes  danc 
ing  in  a  sunbeam. 

"  You  realize  my  hopes  this  morning,  Victoire.  For  the 
first  time  I  see  the  decided  improvement  which  I  have  so 
much  desired.  You  are  almost  well,  child  ;  do  you  know  it  ? 
Disease  has  left  you.  You  only  want  revivifying.  The  soft 
curves,  the  delicate  bloom;  will  soon  come  back  ;  you  are  too 
young  to  lose  them.  Let  me  see,  it  is  March ;  April,  May, 
June — in  June  you  will  look  like  the  little  girl  whom  I  knew 
in  France ;  the  very  same.  I  have  not  quite  known  the  Ame 
rican  Victoire,"  he  said,  in  his  calm,  kind  voice. 

"  I  shall  owe  the  change  to  you.  You  have  saved  my  life, 
Monsieur  Rochelle.  I  am  sure  I  am  grateful.  I  hope  that 
I  shall  live  to  pay  you,  in  part  at  least,  the  great  debt  I  owe 
you." 

"  I  expect  that  you  will  live  to  pay  me  all  that  you  owe  me 
and  much  more.  Your  gratitude  is  entirely  too  active.  You 
dwell  upon  it,  and  upon  the  great  debt  which  you  half  fear 
you  may  not  be  able  to  pay,  till  you  manage  to  make  a 
little  fever  every  day  out  of  sheer  anxiety.  Your  cheeks  are 
flushing  now  at  the  very  thought.  Don't  disturb  yourself. 
You  shall  have  all  of  your  life  to  pay  it  in,  and  I  shall  ask  no 
interest." 

"  I  don't  like  to  think  that  I  must  be  burdened  with  the 
knowledge  of  a  debt  all  my  life.  I  want  to  be  free  to  pour 
out  spontaneous  gifts.  It  is  unpleasant  to  feel  that  we  owe 
all  that  we  can  bestow,  and  more." 

"  You  owe  me  nothing,  Victoire ;   nothing." 

"  Monsieur  Rochelle,  I  owe  more  than  I  can  ever  repay ; 
and  the  thought  vexes  me.  I  would  rather  owe  any  one  than 
you." 

"  I  know  that  you  would.  But  if  you  are  to  owe  at  all, 
you  had  far  better  owe  me  than  any  one  else." 

"  Why  ?" 


212  Victoire. 

"Because  I  am  your  only  earthly  protector.  I  only 
reproach  myself  that  I  have  not  taken  better  care  of  you." 

"  I  cannot  imagine  by  what  authority  you  reproach  your 
self.  More  than  two  years  ago  did  I  not  tell  you  that 
God  was  my  protector,  and  that  I  did  not  want  you  to  take 
care  of  me  ;  that  I  could  take  care  of  myself,  Monsieur  Ko- 
chelle  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember  all  that  you  said  to  me,  which  by  no 
means  lessened  my  responsibility.  I  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  annoying  you,  or  of  being  intrusive  ;  yet  I  have 
never  seen  a  moment,  since  Frederick  died,  when  I  have  not 
felt  that  your  interest  and  happiness  were,  in  a  measure,  com 
mitted  to  my  care,  and  must  ever  remain  so,  unless  you  chose 
for  yourself  a  nearer  protector." 

"  Monsieur  Rochelle,  many  women  live  and  die  who  never 
have  any  protector  but  God.  If  He  designed  that  they 
should  have  another,  He  would  probably  have  given  them 
one.  You  speak  as  if  a  woman  could  not  live  unless  there 
lived  a  man  to  take  care  of  her.  Don't  you  think  there  are 
women  who  can  take  care  of  themselves  as  well  as  if  they 
were  men  ?" 

"A  few,  a  very  few,  Victoire.  The  world  imperatively 
demands  that  all  men  should  be  masculine,  and  all  women 
feminine  ;  but  nature,  wilful  and  fitful,  often  sees  fit  to  make 
masculine  women  and  feminine  men.  There  are  apparent 
women  who  are  intellectually  men  ;  there  are  nominal  men 
who  are  inwardly  women.  For  this  reason,  all  along  the  path  of 
life,  in  the  market,  in  the  street,  in  the  shop,  the  school,  the 
house,  there  are  women  who  equal  men  in  trade,  in  knowledge, 
in  capacity,  and  in  the  iron  will  which  penetrates  through  the 
world,  crushing  and  driving  down  before  it  every  object 
which  lies  in  its  way.  Such  women  stand  on  the  same  plateau 
wkh  men,  grapple  life  and  conquer  it  with  a  man's  force  and 
a  man's  weapons.  They  are  women,  but  not  the  normal 
woman  ;  not  the  mother,  sister,  wife,  whom  man  loves,  serves, 
protects  ;  not  the  serene  neighbor  by  his  side ;  the  benign, 
beautiful  spirit  whom  man  worships  as  the  visible  incarnation 
of  his  own  highest  spiritual  self-hood  ;  the  embodied  symbol 
of  the  holier  life  which  will  at  last  redeem  him  from  depra 
vity,  and  ally  him  to  God." 

"  Will  you  go  on,  Monsieur  Rochelle  ?  I  like  to  hear  you. 
This  lovely  ideal  woman  of  yours,  is  she  incapable  of  taking 
care  of  herself  ?  What  if  there  is  no  manly  arm  upon  which 
she  has  a  right  to  lean  ?" 


Henri  Rochelle's  Ideal  Woman.  213 

"  No,  she  is  not  incapable  of  taking  care  of  herself ;  she 
will  do  so  in  a  gentle,  womanly  way.  But  all  my  nature  is 
moved  with  pity  when  I  see  such  a  woman  standing  in  the 
world  alone.  If  she  is  not  less  an  intellectual,  she  is  a  more 
affectional  and  spiritual  being  than  man,  and  knows  by 
inspiration  what  he  is  taught  by  reason.  Because  the  tex 
ture  of  her  brain  is  finer,  her  nerves  more  delicately  strung, 
her  muscle  more  supple  and  yielding,  her  heart  more 
sensitive  and  tenderly  emotional,  is  the  reason  why  she  is 
jarred  and  rudely  bruised  by  shocks  which  scarcely  touch 
him  ;  why  she  falls  wounded  in  the  brunt  of  the  battle,  while 
he  fights  on,  unwearied  and  unharmed.  This  is  no  ideal 
woman,  Victoire  ;  she  is  the  God-made  woman,  the  woman 
of  the  household  and  of  the  heart.  She  is  not  depress 
ed  in  the  scale  of  being,  because  man  stands  as  her  de 
fender  in  the  great  angry  world.  She  knows  that  she  has 
not  his  physical  power,  his  passion,  his  courage,  his  man 
hood.  She  is  content  that  he,  the  slave  of  necessity  and 
duty,  finds  in  her  his  perpetual  inspiration.  She  is  to  him 
God's  loveliest  revelation.  In  her  soul  he  finds  transfigured 
his  purest  desires,  his  most  ineffable  dreams.  It  is  her  life  to 
love  and  to  bless ;  in  this  life  lies  the  charm  which  wins  his 
deathless  worship.  He  has  passion  and  intellect,  yet  he  knows 
that  he  lacks  the  pure  spontaneous  affection,  the  serene  spiri 
tual  force  of  the  fair  woman  by  his  side.  For  him  the  whole 
world  is  gladder  for  the  music  of  her  voice.  '  The  common 
air  grows  tonic  with  her  presence.'  He  smoothes  the  rugged 
life-path  for  her  frailer  feet.  She  brightens- life  for  him  by 
making  a  joyous  home,  peopling  it  with  childish  creatures  ; 
garlanding  it  with  beauty,  till  every  object  blossoms  in  un- 
imagined  grace.  I  know  that  this  woman  often  walks  alone 
through  the  world,  with  no  one  to  stand  between  her  and  the 
hardest  necessity.  For  this  reason  I  long  to  see  her  avenues 
of  employment  widened,  her  sphere  of  mental  and  physical 
activity  enlarged,  new  employments  and  professions  brought 
within  her  reach,  that,  if  her  heart  cannot  have  all  the  love 
which  it  needs,  at  least  life  may  be  a  little  more  to  her  than 
one  long  want,  one  unending,  inexorable,  degrading  task  ; 
that}  if  fate  defrauds  her  of  household  joy  and  manly  cherish 
ing,  still  her  existence  may  be  filled  with  lofty  endeavor  and 
noble  success.  It  is  the  highest  honor  conferred  upon  man  that 
he  may  be  the  protector  of  such  a  woman.  It  is  the  purest 
triumph  of  her  being  that  she,  of  all  created  creatures,  is  the 
object  of  his  deathless  love.  Will  you  be  this  woman,  Victoire  ?" 


214  Victoire. 

"  That  is  impossible,  because  nature  has  not  given  me  her 
delectable  graces." 

"  With  all  your  proud  rebellion,  Victoire,  you  are  a  very 
woman  through  and  through.  With  all  your  high  aspiring, 
you  would  never  burst  a  single  barrier  which  nature  or  cus 
tom  has  imposed  upon  your  sex,  in  order  to  do  something 
great.  There  are  women  who  will  do  so,  but  not  you.  You 
are  a  luxuriant  but  delicate  plant  that  can  only  strike  root  in 
a  genial  soil.  The  quickening  sun,  the  healing  dew,  the  sum 
mer  rain  must  feed  and  nourish  you,  or  your  soul  will  never 
emit  its  richest  fragrance,  or  bear  its  most  delicious  fruit. 
The  hurricane  would  rend  you.  Life's  wind  and  rain  would 
scathe,  and  dwarf,  and  deform  you.  You  have  genius,  Vic 
toire.  You  have  its  acute,  subtle,  susceptible  organism  ;  and 
just  so  far  as  your  nature  is  finer  and  more  sensitive  than  the 
world's  driving  crowd,  are  you  unfitted  for  positive  contact 
with  it.  You  could  exist,  but  scarcely  live  in  the  great  world 
of  greed  and  gain.  Harder  natures  would  run  against  you, 
chafe  you,  hurt  you,  sharpen  you,  till  existence  would  grow 
to  be  a  torment.  Talent,  sturdy,  material,  practical  talent, 
daring  and  doing  all  things,  delights  to  push  its  way  hard- 
fisted,  barefaced  through  the  blistering  highway  of  the  world  ; 
but  genius  effloresces  in  perfect  flower  only  amid  gracious 
circumstances ;  for  its  full  development  it  needs  sheltered 
ways  and  gentle,  tender  influences.  You  need  all  this  ;  you 
need  a  home  and  a  protector,  Victoire." 

"  You  told  me  that  long  ago.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me 
something  new.  I  like  your  abstract  discourse  better  than 
your  personal  application,  Mr.  Rochelle." 

"  There,  I  like  that  touch  of  your  old  spirit ;  now  I  know 
that  you  are  almost  well.  If  I  only  tell  you  a  few  more  times 
that  you  need  a  protector,  you  will  be  perfectly  restored.  I 
like  a  wilful  woman,  provided  she  is  not  stubborn.  If  she  is 
only  wilful,  she  will  contend  a  little  while  for  her  own  way, 
and  then  joy  in  following  you  out  of  pure  contrition  for  her 
waywardness.  I  have  felt  a  tender  solicitude  for  the  pale, 
quiet  American  Victoire,  .but  I  cannot  say  that  she  charms 
me  more  than  the  Victoire  whom  I  knew  in  France,  with  her 
lustrous  eyes  and  Empress  ways." 

"  When  her  Empress  ways  came  in  collision  with  your  strong 
will,  you  were  not  very  much  charmed  with  her ;  were  you, 
Mr.  Rocbelle  ?» 

"  Yes,  she  charmed  me  then ;  but  not  so  much  as  she 
grieved  me.  I  was  not  angry ;  I  did  not  blame  her.  I  was 


Henri  Rochelle's  Ideal  Woman.  215 

sad  when  I  thought  of  the  long,  hard  lesson  of  life  which  she 
had  to  learn.  I  was  disappointed  that  I  could  not  save  her 
from  learning  that  lesson  alone  among  strangers  ;  for  myself, 
I  felt  that  I  could  afford  to  wait.  I  knew  that  her  high, 
delicately-strung  soul  needed  only  a  little  toning  down  to 
emit  a  soft,  steady  flame  of  affection.  I  only  feared  that  in 
the  fierce  crucible  of  the  world  its  fine  temper  would  be  de 
stroyed  ;  that  it  would  be  crushed  and  broken.  When  I  first 
beheld  you  in  this  room,  I  feared  that  the  work  was  ac 
complished  ;  but  with  returning  health  I  see  that  your  soul 
scintillates  as  finely  as  ever.  As  finely,  yet  a  little  more 
softly ;  the  two  years  of  actual  life  have  tempered  you  quite 
enough,  my  poor  child." 

"  I  don't  like  to  have  you  call  me  *  poor  child '  in  that  pity 
ing  way.  I  don't  want  you  to  pity  me  in  that  sublime  sort 
of  a  tone,  as  if  you  .were  Jove  sitting  on  Olympus,  and  I  a 
wounded  worm  at  your  feet  that  you  are  sorry  for  because  it 
is  hurt.  I  wish  that  you  would  stop  pitying  me,  Monsieur 
Rochelle." 

"I  am  half  sorry  that  I  have  vexed  you,  and  only  half  sorry. 
Anything  to  banish  the  sick,  half  dead  American  Victoire, 
and  bring  back  the  radiant  maiden  whom  I  remember,  and 
can  scarcely  wait  to  see.  There  !  You  are  almost  the  same. 
There  is  a  pink  tint  on  your  cheek,  like  the  blush  on  an  ocean 
shell.  But  those  short,  clustering  curls  make  your  head  look 
like  a  little  boy's.  I  miss  the  long,  flossy,  flowing  ones.  Those 
clinging,  tendril-like  curls  were  always  to  me  the  soft  insignia 
of  your  womanhood,  which  had  a  silent  way  of  mocking  your 
proud  Athena  words.  When  they  come  back,  you  will  be  the 
very  little  girl  who  used  to  sit  in  a  distant  corner  of  a  Parisian 
salon,  sewing,  sketching,  and  listening,  while  Frederick  and 
his  friend  talked." 

"  Listening !  I  never  listened.  I  could  not  have  listened  to 
such  tedious  talk.  I  liked  my  own  thoughts  wonderfuHy 
better.  I  thought  you  very  tiresome,  Monsieur  Rochelle." 

"Probably  you  thought  right.  It  was  a  great  slip  of 
memory  for  me  to  say  that  you  listened.  I  know  that  you 
never  did.  I  recollect,  too,  that  it  was  your  perfect  indif 
ference  which  first  interested  and  then  charmed  me.  You 
seemed  joyously  isolated  and  unconscious ;  rare  states  for  a 
young  girl.  Had  you  been  obtrusive  and  eager  for  discussion, 
the  charm  would  have  been  broken.  I  met  ladies  in  fashion 
able  salons  who  could  discuss  the  component  parts  of  the  blood 
and  bones  like  scientific  savans ;  feminine  metaphysicians,  who 


216  Victoire. 

could  pick  human  nature  to  pieces,  thread  by  thread;  but 
there  was  no  attractive  electricity  in  their  cold  receptive 
minds ;  there  was  no  warmth  in  their  brilliancy.  No  man ' 
ever  loved  a  woman  simply  for  her  intellect,  however  rare. 
Intellect,  keen,  cold,  aggressive,  antagonistic,  is  in  itself 
repellant ;  it  never  kindles  a  warmer  feeling  than  admiration. 
But  intellect,  suffused  with  the  warm  life  of  the  heart,  carries 
with  it  an  irresistible  fascination.  An  intellectual  woman, 
whose  affections  are  as  efflorescent  as  her  brain,  whose  love 
is  as  living  and  glowing  as  her  thought,  is  the  one  of  all  others 
who  can  till  the  nature  of  a  large-souled  man.  A  monotonous 
spaniel-like  creature,  all  affection  and  no  brain,  in  time  would 
fill  him  with  sickening  satiety;  but  this  enkindling  creature 
brings  into  his  life  endless  variety  and  infinite  love." 

"Then,  you  think  a  woman's  charm  is  personal  ?"  I  asked. 

"  A  woman's  charm  is  always  personal,  never  abstract  or 
intellectual.  Not  what  she  thinks,  but  what  she  is,  makes  her 
lovely  or  unlovely,  attractive  or  repelling.  Man  seeks  in  her 
the  highest  object  of  personal  love.  It  is  her  individuality, 
the  magnetism  of  her  being,  filling  all  the  atmosphere  which 
she  breathes  with  its  subtle  radiations,  her  own  sacred  self, 
which  wins.  Thus  in  your  silence  you  won  me,  Victoire.  I 
beheld  in  you  my  feminine  counterpart ;  in  you  found  all  that 
my  soul  needed,  yet  had  not. 

"  I  have  never  told  you  why  I  was  so  long  in  seeking  you," 
he  continued,  as  I  slipped  no  words  into  the  silence.  "  I 
knew  that  time  only  could  bring  a  change  to  your  deter 
minations.  I  knew  also  that  I  could  not  anticipate  or  hasten 
that  change.  While  you  had  means  of  support  I  resolved  not 
to  intrude  upon  you ;  but  before  you  would  have  spent  your 
last  remittance,  I  determined  to  sail  for  New  York.  The 
sickness  of  my  father,  his  subsequent  death,  delayed  my 
coming ;  thus  it  was  autumn  before  I  reached  America.  I 

went  immediately  to  your  address, place.     '  Miss  Ver- 

noid  had  gone  ;  went  in  May  ;  didn't  know  where  she  went 
to,'  the  lady  of  the  house  said.  '  Miss  Vernoid  had  been 
unfortunate ;  had  had  a  long  fit  of  sickness,  which  involved 
her  in  debt.  Miss  Vernoid  was  proud,  and  probably  did  not 
wish  her  friends  to  find  her ;  but  it  was  the  lady's  opinion  that 
she  needed  to  be  taken  care  of  by  somebody.'  I  was  leaving 
in  utter  disappointment,  when  an  Irish  servant,  who  overheard 
your  name  in  the  hall,  cried  out :  '  Deed  an'  I  am  knowin'  if 

it's  Miss  Ver ,  I  can't  say  it,  ye're  wanting.  'Deed  I  knows 

where  she  is,  the  darlin'  young  leddy  I  nuisit  with  me  o\\n 


Bel  Eden.  217 

hands.'  'Kate,  be  silent,'  said  the  lady.  But  Kate  did  not 
choose  to  be  silent.  She  went  on  with  a  long  story,  and  a 
horrible  one,  too,  I  thought.  I  listened  only  till  I  could  hear 
the  number  of  your  new  place  of  abode :  '  A  mighty  shabby 
place  for  the  like  of  her,  ye'll  find  it,'  said  Kate,  as  I  departed. 
I  found  it  gloomy  and  shabby  enough,  but  you  were  not  there. 
'  She  and  two  other  girls  had  gone  to  keepin'  house,  nobody 
knew  where,'  was  all  that  I  could  learn.  I  left  the  dark  abode 
wretched,  full  of  apprehension.  For  the  first  time,  it  occurred 
to  me  to  advertise.  I  did  so,  and  without  avail.  For  months, 
day  and  night,  I  sought  you  fruitlessly ;  till  Providence  led  me 
across  the  path  of  the  redoubtable  George  Washington  Pea 
cock,  when  I  found  you — found  you,  and  not  too  late  to  save 
your  life." 

The  manly  voice  was  tremulous  with  suppressed  emotion. 
Its  vibrations  touched  my  heart ;  the  great  tears  dropped 
upon  my  wasted  fingers.  "  Your  husband  and  home  wait  for 
you,  Victoire.  Think  of  what  I  have  said." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  Morna  entered,  looking  pale  and 
weary.  He  arose  and  greeted  her.  He  offered  her  his  hand, 
saying  gently :  "  You  have  walked  too  far.  I  must  begin  to  take 
care  of  you.  I  can't  have  you  exchange  places  with  Victoire. 
Don't  take  life  too  hard,  my  child.  Life  has  a  richer  portion  in 
store  for  you." 

The  warm  blood  struck  through  the  pallid  cheek,  as  she 
lifted  her  soul-eyes  to  his. 


BEL   EDEN. 

"  Henri  Rochelle,  if  you  still  insist  upon  making  me  your 
wedded  wife,  remember  ttpon  you  must  rest  the  responsibility 
of  the  act  and  its  consequences." 

"  I  am' only  too  ready  to  accept  the  responsibility  and  con 
sequences  of  making  you  my  wife,  Victoire." 

"  You  know  that  never,  by  desire  or  deed,  have  I  sought  or 
coveted  that  place  ?" 

"  Yes,  proud  child,  I  know  all  that.  If  I  had  taken  only  a 
superficial  view  of  your  character,  or  of  your  girlish  refusal, 
I  should  have  felt  that  I  compromised  my  manhood  by  my  con 
tinued  importuning.  But  I  looked  below  the  surface  of  both. 
In  the  likeness  and  unlikeness  of  our  natures,  in  our  opposite 
temperaments,  in  the  kinship  of  our  tastes  and  aspirations,  I 

10 


218  Victoire. 

see  the  elements  which  will  be  wrought  by  time  into  an  in 
dissoluble  bond,  making  us  in  soul  eternally  one." 

"  I  feel  at  present  that  we  are  decidedly  two.  How  long  a 
space  will  time  occupy  in  perfecting  our  spirit  union,  Mon 
sieur — a  lifetime  ?" 

"  No.  Already  I  cleave  to  you  as  I  never  did  to  father  or 
mother.  Even  now  you  cannot  well  spare  me  out  of  your 
life.  You  do  not  dislike  me,  Victoire ;  no,  you  like  me.  If 
you  did  not,  I  would  not  wish  you  to  marry  me  until  you  did. 
But  as  I  told  you  long  ago,  for  the  passion-bloom  of  love  I 
can  afford  to  wait." 

It  was  the  very  same  quietly  assured  tone  which  said  years 
before  :  "  I  can  wait."  Yet  now  it  did  not  rasp  or  fret  me, 
for  I  had  grown  to  a  subtler  appreciation  of  his  nature,  and 
knew  that  his  words  were  not  the  offering  of  presumption,  but 
of  a  deep  insight  into  the  soul. 

Thus  I  believed  as  I  said  to  him:  "You  are  the  most  calmly 
self-possessed  person  I  ever  knew.  You  measure  time  as  God 
measures  it.  One  has  only  to  take  in  the  circle  of  your  plans 
and  to  listen  to  the  tone  in  which  you  say :  '  I  can  wait,'  to 
believe  that  your  mortal  life  cannot  be  bounded  by  the  little 
arc  of  three-score  years  and  ten.  How  long  can  you  afford  to 
wait  for  love  to  flower  in  my  heart  for  you  ?" 

"  A  lifetime,  if  it  were  necessary.  Love  is  of  everlasting 
growth ;  it  never  comes  to  full  flower  here ;  in  the  coming 
life  it  will  develop  glory  which  it  can  never  do  in  this." 

"  Those  sound  like  Frederick's  words,"  I  said.  "  He  was 
always  talking  in  that  far-off,  heavenly  way,  which  used  to 
thrill  me  with  its  sweetness  while  it  filled  me  with  torment, 
because  with  all  my  trying  I  could  not  sympathize  with  its 
abstract  beauty.  You,  as  well  as  he,  are  abstract,  with  this 
difference,  that  he  was  spirituelle,  while  you  are  purely  and 
often  repellingly  intellectual.  How*  did  you  ever  come  to 
love  such  a  little  earthworm  as  me  ?" 

"  Because  you  are  so  earthly,  or,  in  other  words,  so  human, 
is  the  very  reason  why  I  love  you.  In  your  profound  capa 
city  for  affection,  in  your  eager  hunger  for  beauty  and  happi 
ness,  lie  half  your  charms,"  he  answered. 

"  I  am  hungry  for  beauty  and  happiness.  But  if  I  could 
win  for  my  portion  the  beauty  and  happiness  which  I  know 
are  possible  on  earth,  I  fear  that  I  should  never  sigh  for  the 
beauty  or  happiness  of  heaven,  or  pause  to  analyse  what  love 
is  like  in  the  celestial  kingdom.  Do  you  know,  after  my  long 
banishment,  as  I  again  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  green  earth,  I 


Bel  Eden.  219 

•N 

feel  through  all  my  being  that  I  am  as  much  in  love  with  her 
as  ever.  There  is  nothing  I  want  so  much  this  moment  as  to 
go  and  touch  my  lips  to  those  violets  in  the  grass;  to  lay 
my  heart  close  to  the  heart  of  the  budding  earth,  and  feel 
once  more  its  deep,  delicious  throbs.  I  would  like  to  thrust 
my  hand  under  the  fragrant  turf,  into  the  moist  soil,  just  to 
feel  the  quickening  life  start  through  its  teeming  pores.  I 
have  been  so  long  imprisoned  within  dusty  streets  and  mouldy 
walls,  I  had  ceased  to  realize,  although  I  had  not  forgotten, 
all  that  nature  had  been  to  me.  Oh,  how  I  want  those  flowers, 
those  anemones,  mottling  the  grass  with  their  white  and  rosy 
bloom.  They  have  stayed  behind  after  all  their  mates-fcave 
gone,  just  to  see  how  May  looks.  I  want  to  go  and  get  them ; 
I  want  to  feel  the  healthful  earth  under  my  feet  once  more  ; 
it  will  give  me  back  an  old  sensation — so  old  that  it  will  be 
delightful  as  new." 

"  The  horses  can  be  stopped  and  you  may  go  after  them. 
But  I  seriously  object  to  your  '  laying  your  heart  on  the  heart 
of  the  budding  earth  ;'  it  is  altogether  too  damp.  A  poetic 
idea,  but,  if  made  an  act,  it  will  give  you  a  cold.  You  can't 
afford  to  take  a  cold  now,  Victoire,"  said  Henri  Rochelle,  the 
literal  philosopher. 

"Do  you  think  that  I  ever  get  up  scenes  to  order,  Mon 
sieur  ?"  I  asked.  "  A  third  person,  a  mere  gazer-on,  is  as 
much  in  the  way  when  we  talk  with  nature  as  when  we  con 
verse  with  human  beings.  The  unwelcomed  third  person  is 
the  resisting  medium  which  always  disturbs  the  equilibrium 
of  the  electrical  currents  flowing  from  soul  to  soul.  Had  I 
thus  suddenly  opened  my  eyes  upon  nature  alone,  after  my 
long  exile  from  her,  I  know  not  what  crazy  things  I  might 
have  done ;  but  in  the  presence  of  another  I  shall  not  make 
myself  absurd." 

"  You  take  everything  too  terribly  in  earnest.  You  have 
made  life  so  earnest,  that  it  has  become  a  pain,  Victoire.  But 
you  may  have  your  anemones  and  violets.  I  am  going  after 
those  dandelions,  spangling  with  gold  the  skirt  of  the  hedge 
yonder.  I  like  dandelions,"  said  Henri  Rochelle,  springing 
from  the  carriage  in  which  we  were  seated,  and  holding  out  his 
hand  for  me. 

"  Take  in  long  breaths  of  this  May  wind,"  he  added  ;  "  it 
will  exhilarate  you  more  than  the  purest  juice  of  the  most 
delicious  grape." 

So  I  stood  on  the  fragrant  sod,  and  drank  until  intoxicated, 
the  perfume,  the  dew,  the  sunshine.  How  long  we  had  been 


220  Victoire. 

strangers,  the  blossoming  earth  and  I !  The  greeting  kiss  of 
the  beloved  one  after  a  wintry  absence  could  not  have  filled 
me  with  a  more  delicious  joy,  than  did  the  toying  breath  of 
the  southern  wind.  It  was  a  morning  in  May,  and  there  was 
more  of  summer  warmth  in  her  smile  than  she  often  bestows 
on  the  western  world.  The  air  distilled  its  vivific  wine  from 
the  earth's  overflowing  veins ;  from  quickened  roots,  and 
swelling  bulbs,  and  incense-dripping  leaves;  from  myriads 
of  pink  and  milky  blossoms,  rippling  through  the  open  spaces 
of  the  hills,  flowing  over  the  illimitable  plains  in  undulating 
oceans  of  new-born  bloom. 

We  were  on  one  of  the  loveliest  of  the  many  lovely  roads 
which  lead  to  the  garden-like  country  which  environs  New 
York.  We  stood  many  feet  above  the  ocean,  and,  as  my  eye 
looked  across  the  vast  prospect,  I  saw  for  the  first  time  "the 
imperial  plan  on  which  nature  laid  out  the  site  and  surround 
ings  of  the  metropolis  of  the  West.  There  stretched  the  city 
along  the  distant  shore,  all  its  incongruities,  its  commercial 
ugliness,  its  old-time  shabbiness,  its  stark  new  splendor,  merged 
into  one  grand  aerial  outline,  showing  mellow  through  the 
morning  mist.  1  saw  the  dun  steeple  of  St.  Paul  peer  through 
its  umbrageous  setting ;  the  aspiring  spire  of  Trinity  glitter 
ing  against  the  blue  heaven ;  the  green  reach  of  the  Battery 
stealing  down  to  nestle  against  the  cheek  of  the  alluring  sea. 
A  buoyant  sheet  of  flame,  the  broad  bay  flickered  in  the 
dazzling  light  and  rosy  shadow  of  the  morning.  Long  Island 
lifted  up  its  palace-crowned  terraces.  Bedloe's  Island  gleamed 
like  an  emerald  set  in  a  still  more  gleaming  auricle.  On 
the  thither  side  of  the  open  door  of  the  sea,  Staten  Island 
soared  towards  the  sky  like  a  shrine,  inviting  the  world's 
wanderers  here  to  rest  to  return  thanks  for  their  prosperous 
voyages. 

Far  and  near  the  wide  waters  were  palpitant  with  human 
life;  cities  of  ships  crowded  against  the  sheltering  shore. 
Pennants  rippled  in  the  crystalline  ether.  Sails  throbbed 
against  the  near  and  farther  heaven,  white  as  the  billowy 
clouds  which  came  down  to  greet  them.  Regnant  steamers 
sped  through  the  gateway  of  the  hemisphere,  to  and  fro 
from  immemorial  climes.  I  forgot  the  flowers  in  my  hand 
which  I  had  just  stolen  from  their  grassy  homes,  while  I 
looked  away  upon  one  of  the  grandest  sights  which  the  earth 
can  show — the  bay  of  New  York. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Victoire  ?"  asked  Henri 
Rochelle. 


Bel  Eden.  22 1 

"  I  am  thinking  that  I  owe  this  enchanting  sight  to  you.  I 
never  realized  before  on  what  a  magnificent  scale  nature  dis 
plays  herself  within  sight  of  the  brick  walls  of  New  York," 
I  said,  as  we  re-entered  the  carriage. 

Far  behind  were  left  the  wooded  shore  of  Hoboken,  the 
green  heights  of  Weehawken,  as  we  rode1  slowly  along  the 
castellated  banks  of  the  Hudson,  America's  classic  river. 
Her  regal  river,  beside  whose  delicious  waters  genius  loves 
to  abide  and  art  to  rear  its  palaces.  The  river  of  all  times, 
along  whose  shore  will  wander  the  pilgrim  of  the  future  to 
worship  beside  crumbling  shrines  for  ever,  holy  as  the  mortal 
home  of  the  immortal  dead.  Through  the  trees  which  inter 
laced  the  road  with  their  delicate  tracery,  we  caught  broad 
gleams  of  the  river.  I  saw  the  waters  flash  and  trail  along 
their  battlemented  banks,  in  long  reaches  of  quivering  sun 
shine  ;  saw  the  violet  shadows  which  fell  on  their  faces  from 
the  depth  of  winged  clouds ;  saw  them  glide  gracefully  away 
under  cover  of  island  and  hill,  close  to  green  shores,  out  to 
the  beguiling  ocean.  Steamboats  rode  on  with  their  convo 
luted  banners  of  smoke  streaming  far  behind  them.  Sloops 
bent  and  buoyed  to  the  eddying  breezes.  Yachts  with  white 
wings  flashed  hither  and  thither,  or,  lazy  things,  dozed  with 
the  sleepy  gales. 

The  magnificent  landscape  stretching  along  its  banks  dis 
played  the  grandeur  of  nature  with  the  esthetic  culture  of 
art.  Everywhere  were  seen  the  dawning  signs  of  luxury  which 
mark  the  growth  of  a  culminating  civilization.  Costly  villas 
stood  in  groves  and  gardens  gazing  from  the  spurs  of  the 
embowered  hills,  or  peering  through  the  embrasures  of  the 
valleys.  Afar  on  stretched  sylvan  vistas,  towns  and  vil 
lages,  church-tower  and  spire  glittering  against  the  distant 
sky  in  the  light  of  that  resplendent  morning. 

"  You  accuse  me  of  being  abstract,  Victoire,"  said  Henri 
Rochelle  ;  "  but  if  I  wander  away  in  my  words,  you  do  in 
your  thoughts.  You  are  an  illusive  creature  ;  you  are  as 
subtle  as  light.  When  I  think  that  I  hold  you  fairly  within 
the  arc  of  my  thoughts,  I  look  at  you  only  to  see  that  you 
have  slipped  away  out  into  a  visionary  realm,  where  I  cannot 
even  .pursue  you.  For  the  last  ten  minutes  you  have  been 
looking  into  the  distance  as  if  you  saw  into  futurity.  You 
have  not  even  taken  the  trouble  to  deny  my  assertion  that  you 
like  me.  Did  you  hear  it,  Victoire  ?" 

"  Hear  it !  Indeed  I  did.  Why  should  I  deny  the  truth  ? 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  some  time  ago  that  I  like  you,  Mon- 


222  Victoire. 

sieur  Rochelle.  I  liked  you  long  ago  as  Beatrice's  brother, 
as  Frederick's  dearest  friend.  I  like  you  now  as  my  benefac 
tor,  and  as  the  noblest  man  I  know." 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  own  that  you  liked  me  at  last. 
Then,  Victoire,  why  your  persistent,  I  may  say  your  almost 
perverse  refusal  to  marry  me  ?" 

"  Not  because  I  do  not  like  you  at  all,  but  because  there 
is  a  voice  somewhere  in  my  being  which  tells  me  that  I  do 
not  love  you  as  I  am  capable  of  loving — as  I  might  love 
another.  I  feel  that  I  cannot  admire  you  too  much,  nor 
serve  you  too  faithfully.  From  pure  gratitude,  I  would  wil 
lingly  sacrifice  much  joy  out  of  my  own  life  if,  by  so  doing, 
I  might  make  yours  more  beautiful.  But  you  sit  apart  in 
your  great  wisdom,  and  goodness,  and  greatness.  I  cannot 
reach  you.  I  feel  a  great  way  off  from  you,  even  in  my  admi 
ration  and  affection.  If  this  chills  me  in  the  friend,  it  would 
kill  me  in  my  husband.  A  maiden's  loveless  life  at  last  grows 
very  dreary,  but  a  frozen  married  one  must  be  a  million  times 
more  dreary.  I  can  bear  the  first.  I  should  succumb  to  the 
latter.  Or  if  not,  should  make  an  exacting  and  tormenting 
wife,  let  me  warn  you,  Monsieur." 

"  You  will  make  a  sensible  woman  some  time,  Victoire, 
though  I  confess  you  have  never  annoyed  me  except  with 
your  incorrigible  romance.  You  fill  your  talk  with  poetic 
exaggerations.  You  even  hint  at  the  possibility  of  my  killing 
you  with  coldness.  Am  I  a  monster  ?" 

"  No,  you  are  a  perfect  gentleman." 

"  And  you  like  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  like  no  man  better  ?" 

"  No.  But  think  of  my  nun-like  life.  Besides  Frederick, 
you  and  Signer  Orsino  are  the  only  men  whom  I  have  ever 
known.  Frederick  was  the  object  of  my  deepest,  fondest 
love.  I  see  plainly  now  that  I  worshipped  him  with  a  pas 
sionate  and  wild  idolatry.  Orsino  won  from  me  a  most  sym-- 
pathetic  and  sisterly  interest.  You  call  out  my  unbounded 
admiration,  my  profoundest  gratitude,  and  a  shy,  fearful  affec 
tion  which  neither  cheers  nor  fills  me.  Is  this  all  that  I  am 
callable  of  giving  my  husband?  How  do  I  know  that  there 
is  not  a  being  in  the  world  who  would  fill  my  nature  and 
absorb  my  life  ?  It  would  be  dreadful — " 

"  What  would  be  dreadful,  Victoire?" 

"  It  would  be  dreadful,  more  dreadful  than  I  dare  to  think, 
after  we  were  irrevocably  married,  to  have  another  soul  thrust 


Bel  Eden.  223 

itself  between  us ; — to — to  wake  to  the  consciousness  that 
another  could  be  more  to  me  than  my  own  husband.  God 
save  me  from  such  a  fate  !" 

"  Victoire,  you  astonish  me.  I  am  amazed  at  such  wild 
words  uttered  with  such  prophetic  unction.  Do  use  your 
reason,  child  ;  then  your  imagination  cannot  fly  off  with  you 
into  the  region  of  obscure  possibilities.  Do  you  imagine  that 
people  can  have  no  control  over  their  affections  ?  That  they 
must  go  wherever  a  mad  passion  leads  them  ?  That  will 
and  duty  become  null  and  void  under  the  power  of  love,  and 
the  promptings  of  temptation  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  only  mean  thatneither  will  nor  duty  can  make 
love  or  kill  it,  although  they  can  regulate  its  action.  We 
cannot  decide  how  much  or  how  little  we  will  love  some  pei-- 
sons.  Our  love  is  spontaneous  and  independent  of  our  voli 
tions.  Our  conduct,  of  course,  can  be  subordinate  to  will 
and  duty.  We  cannot  love  people  for  what  they  are .  to 
others ;  but  for  what  they  are  to  us,  and  for  what  we  may  be 
to  them.  We  only  give  to  each  one  the  exact  measure  which 
they  are  constituted  to  create  in  us.  We  love  another  in  just 
the  proportion  in  which  that  soul  supplies  the  wants  of  our 
own.  The  being  who  kindles  and  quickens  our  entire  nature, 
who  first  makes  us  conscious  of  a  wealth  of  soul  which  we 
dreamed  not  of  possessing,  in  whose  simple  presence  we  are 
pervaded  with  a  heavenly  satisfaction,  a  divine  fusion  of 
spirit  with  spirit,  that  being  is  the  one  whom  we  will  love 
supremely  ;  the  one  who  will  absorb  our  nature,  make  our 
life.  Henri  Rochelle,  if  I  could  only  believe  that  you  are 
that  one,  this  moment  I  would  lay  my  hand  in  yours  in  token 
of  our  eternal  marriage.  How  can  I  believe  that  you  are  he, 
when  I  do  not  feel  it  ?  If,  after  marriage,  I  should  meet 
that  being,  what,  what  should  I  do  ?  Tell  me,  Henri  Ro 
chelle  ?"  ' 

"  Do  ?"  he  said,  looking  at  me  with  a  perfectly  quiet  smile. 
"  You  would  do  right,  would  you  not,  Victoire  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  I  should  do.  We  can  fancy  ourselves 
strong ;  we  cannot  be  sure  until  the  test  is  applied.  Our 
nature  is  never  gauged  until  a  great  temptation,  like  a  galvanic 
shock,  touches  with  lightning  our  diseased  spots  and  quivers 
around  the  weak  places  of  our  souls.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
know  myself,  Monsieur  Rochelle." 

"  Well,  Victoire,  I  know  you  well  enough  to  smile  very 
complacently  over  the  future  fiery  trial  your  wild  brain  has 
conjured  up.  We  can  imagine  any  absurdities  if  we  choose  to 


224  Victoire. 

let  our  fancies  run  riot.  I  can  even  imagine  myself  loving 
desperately  some  beautiful,  improbable  girl,  afar  down  in  the 
future,  although  I  verily  believe  that  I  found  the  only  girl 
whom  I  shall  ever  love  years  ago.  You  must  pardon  me 
for  being  amused  at  that  being  whom  you  talk  of  as  vehe 
mently  as  if  you  saw  him  before  your  eyes.  I  assure  you  that 
he  does  not  make  me  jealous.  Why  should  he  ?  You  have 
never  manifested  the  proclivity  common  to  young  girls,  of 
falling  in  and  out  of  love.  I  have  no  reason  to  apprehend 
that  you  will  suddenly  become  addicted  to  such  a  habit  after 
marriage.  A  sensitive  conscience  is  among  your  prominent 
attributes.  If  you  had  a  husband,  you  would  never  forget 
what  you  owed  him." 

"  Never  !" 

"  If  you  marry  the  one  whom  Heaven  designed  for  you, 
you  will  never  wake  up  to  find  yourself  mistaken,  but  will 
come  to  the  conclusion  at  last  that  in  this,  as  in  everything 
else,  your  lot  was  wisely  and  kindly  chosen.  Pardon  my  con 
tinued  assurance,  although  I  say  that  I  believe  myself  to  be 
that  one,  as  I  believe  that  you  are  my  Heaven-ordained  and 
consecrated  wife.  Victoire,  with  all  our  will,  we  cannot  resist 
our  destiny  ;  it  will  triumph  in  spite  of  us." 

Once  these  words  would  have  filled  me  with  rebellion, 
would  have  made  me  lift  up  my  eyes  to  his  in  haughty  defi 
ance.  Now  they  only  sank  into  my  soul  with  the  smiting 
weight  of  a  heavy  sadness.  It  had  been  easy  once  to  resist 
the  self-appointed,  self-asserting  guardian  ;  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  be  angry  with  the  munificent,  constant,  tender  friend. 
Besides,  I  was  too  weak  and  weary  to  be  proud,  and  too  sin 
cere  to  affect  a  loftiness  which  I  could  not  feel. 

"  I  would  rather  give  the  garnered  love  of  my  life  to 
you  than  to  any  one  else  in  the  world,  if  I  could,"  I  said. 

"  Thank  you,  Victoire,  for  those  womanly  words  ;  they  are 
the  dawning  promise  of  a  blessed  future.  The  tender  woman 
is  fast  taking  the  place  of  the  vaunting  girl." 

"  I  like  the  girl  best,"  I  said,  perversely. 

"  If  you  were  a  man  you  would  love  the  woman.  No 
magnificence  of  spirit  can  atone  for  a  lack  of  tenderness  in 
a  woman. 

"  You  concede  much  in  acknowledging  your  desire  to  love 
me.  '  If  you  could,'  you  say.  You  demur  on  account  of  my 
visionary  rival,  who  at  present  only  lives  a  very  beautiful  ideal 
existence  in  your  brain.  I  have  no  concern  that  he  will  live 
anywhere  else.  As  you  become  better  acquainted  with  men,  you 


Bel  Eden.  225 

will  not  find  the  great  disparity  among  them  which  you 
imagine.  You  will  only  discover  in  each  individual  a  little 
more  or  less  of  the  same  material.  All,  no  matter  what  their 
temperament,  culture,  or  genius,  radiate  subtle  antagonisms, 
send  out  repellant  forces,  and  one  has  only  to  come  into 
sufficiently  intimate  personal  contact  to  feel  their  friction. 
Two  souls  have  never  met  in  absolute  equipoise  since  the  aveng 
ing  cherub  hung  his  flaming  sword  over  the  shut  gate  of 
Eden.  The  jar  of  the  dissonant  world  will  cause  occasional 
vibrations.  There  are  souls  who  move  on  together  in  beau 
tiful  harmony ;  but  their  highest  union  is  the  gradual  result 
of  assimilation  and  of  growth.  Its  roots  are  mutual  esteem, 
confidence,  sympathy ;  its  flower  is  affection,  its  fruit  love. 
We  should  cherish  the  pale  flower  in  whose  ovule  lies  the 
quickening  seed  of  the  divine  fruit.  Already  you  have  given 
me  this  Alpine  blossom,  with  the  virgin  snow  of  your  heart 
clinging  to  its  delicate  roots.  With  what  interest  I  shall 
watch  the  advancing  summer  ;  watch  the  white  flower  expand 
ing  with  its  matron  charm  ;  watch  the  delicious  growing  of  the 
fervid  fruit  ripening  at  its  core.  I  can  well  afford  to  wait, 
lingering  only  a  tolerated'guest  in  the  vestibule  of  your  heart, 
when  I  see  that  the  season  is  not  far  distant  when  I  may  enter 
in  and  partake  of  its  most  sacred  sanctities.  I  can  wait." 

"  Oh,  you  tire  me  out  with  your  shades  of  analyses.  You 
dissect  love,  and  me,  and  everything,  just  as  you  would  a  medi 
cal  subject.  Ah,  it  is  this  which  divides  us,  Henri  Rochelle. 
You  think  that  all  that  is  necessary  to  happiness  in  the  begin 
ning  of  marriage  is  a  cool  esteem,  a  dispassionate  affection, 
while  love  hovers  doubtful,  far  off  in  the  distance.  How  can  I 
know  that  I  shall  ever  love  you  more  than  I  do  now  ?  I  can 
never  be  more  sensible  than  I  am  at  present  that  you  are  noble, 
and  true,  and  good,  and  grand.  Oh,  if  I  could  be  sure  that  *I 
should  grow  to  love  you  more !  My  husband  must  be  more 
to  me  than  my  friend." 

"  In  other  words,  Victoire,  you  wish  to  be  violently  in  love 
with  the  hero  who  is  to  become  your  husband.  You  have 
even  more  than  the  usual  share  of  girl-romance.  Have  you 
yet  to  learn  that  the  people  who  are  the  most  wildly  in  love, 
in  the  common  acceptation  of  that  word,  are  the  very  ones  who 
first  become  disgusted  and  weary  of  each  other;  because 
their  love  is  not  founded  in  reason,  nor  in  reciprocal  quali 
ties,  but  in  infatuation,  passion?" 

"  Oh,  you  misunderstand  me.    I  mean  no  such  love." 

*'  No,  I  do  not  misunderstand  you.  Your  ideal  is  high,  but 

10* 


226  Victoire. 

you  ignore  the  path  by  which  you  must  reach  it.  We  must 
wait  for  everything  desirable.  It  is  hard  for  you  to  wait  for 
anything,  Victoire." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  Your  mercurial  temperament  forces  upon  you  strong 
extremes  of  feeling,  which  at  times  amount  to  impetuous  ex 
aggerations.  Two  years  ago  you  ignored  your  heart,  and 
seemed  to  think  only  of  your  head.  Now  you  seem  to  have 
forgotten  that  you  have  a  head,  and  are  entirely  absorbed 
with  your  heart." 

I  laughed  at  this  picture  of  inconsistency. 

"  In  all  this  conversation  you  have  not  once  mentioned  your 
art  ;  two  years  ago  you  scarcely  spoke  of  anything  else.  Then, 
you  worshipped  Athena  and  despised  Aphrodite.  Now  I 
think  you  never  knew  that  Athena  existed,  while  you 
quietly  acknowledge  your  need  of  love  and  loving  with  all  an 
Aphrodite's  tenderness." 

I  did  not  laugh  now.  These  words  struck  me  with  a  quick 
pain,  as  they  recalled  all  that  had  made  art  a  thought  so  sacred 
and  yet  so  sad.  .  It  had  shrunken  far  down  into  the  deepest 
cavern  of  my  soul,  nestling  there  beside  its  one  lonely  secret, 
beside  its  hidden,  holy  face.  How  could  I,  with  sacrilegious 
hand,  drag  it  forth  into  the  common  daylight  of  common 
words. 

Henri  Rochelle  noticed  the  sudden  shadow.     He  said  : 

"  I  have  not  been  speaking  derisively.  I  have  not  even  in 
my  thought  accused  you  of  fickleness.  Don't  put  on  that  sad 
face  over  my  words,  child.  You  are  to  me  this  moment  pre 
cisely  what  you  were  two  years  ago.  You  were  true  to  your 
self  then,  and  you  are  true  now.  I  see  the  identical  soul  in 
two  different  periods  of  its  development.  I  knew  then  that 
fto  Grecian  goddess  had  ever  loved  so  tenderly,  so  holily,  so  en 
tirely  as  would  the  Christian  maiden  when  she  waked  to  her 
nature  and  its  needs.  But,  because  your  heart  is  waking, 
you  must  not  imagine  that  your  brain  is  dead.  Some  day 
you  will  be  suddenly  astonished  to  find  the  Athena-head  as 
dominant  as  ever.  Then  the  heart  will  have  established  its 
empire,  and  when  intellect  and  heart  reign  in  concert,  then  I 
shall  see  the  harmonious  and  perfectly  developed  woman. 
Nothing  could  be  more  irksome,  more  narrow,  selfish, 
and  exacting,  than  a  woman  whose  love  is  combined  with 
mental  or  moral  weakness.  I  should  make  a  very  unsatisfac 
tory  husband  to  such  a  woman,  or  to  any  woman  whose  intel 
lect  hud  not  an  object  as  well  as  her  heart.  No,  I  could 


Bel  Eden.  227 

never  satisfy  one  who  had  nothing  more  substantial  to  live 
upon  than  childish  attentions  and  endless  fondling,  foolish 
caresses.  I  should  give  ray  wife  substantial  proof  that  my 
highest  love  for  woman  I  gave  to  her.  Having  established 
that  fact,  I  should  not  expect  that  she  would  demand  a  corro- 
boration  of  it  every  hour  in  the  day  in  the  form  of  vapid 
love-words  or  sentimental  affectations  of  any  sort.  I  should 
not  have  time  to  bestow  them,  even  if  I  had  the  disposition. 
Before  I  was  aware  of  it,  I  found  myself  involved  in  a  large 
medical  practice.  I  brought  with  me  letters  of  introduction 
from  the  most  distinguished  medical  men  of  Paris ;  that  fact, 
with  the  more  important  one  that  in  New  York  there  is  a 
great  demand  for  all  Parisian  articles,  established  me  before  I 
had  ever  thought  of  displaying  my  ponderous  college  diplo 
mas,  or  before  I  had  concluded  to  remain  in  this  country 
after  finding  you.  This  large  practice,  which  has  so  early 
forced  itself  upon  me,  must  of  course  absorb  much  of  my 
time  and  thought.  I  should  not  feel  justified  in  taking  to  my 
home  a  wife  who  had  no  mortal  dependence  but  my  society. 
You,  Victoire,  have  art.  You  said  once  that  a  portion  of 
your  best  years  you  wished  to  devote  to  art.  I  have  ever 
wished  to  increase  your  opportunities  for  culture.  I  wish  to 
perpetuate  to  you  the  ease  and  leisure  which  are  indispensable 
to  the  highest  attainments,  in  either  art  or  science.  Will 
you  accept  this  ease  and  leisure,  Victoire  ?  Will  you  embody 
once  more  in  divine  forms  the  beautiful  creations  of  your 
soul  and  brain?" 

"  Ah,  I  hope  that  I  may  some  day,"  I  said,  my  heart  sud 
denly  leaping  at  the  thought,  though  my  voice  was  choked 
with  gathering  tears. 

"  I  knew  by  your  kindling  eyes  that  all  the  old  enthusiasm 
still  lives.  It  has  been  chilled  and  saddened,  and  no  wonder. 
It  is  a  sorrowful  sight  to  see  necessity  drag  genius  down  from 
her  high  vocation  to  do  a  menial's  work  for  the  sake  of  daily 
bread.  You  will  do  yourself  a  great  wrong  if  you  continue 
this  when  it  is  no  longer  necessary.  You  need  not  be  less  a 
tender  woman  because  you  are  an  artist.  Unless  your  intel 
lect  develops  with  your  heart,  your  nature  will  be  warped  or 
stunted.  You,  who  will  have  the  world  of  art  and  of  letters  in 
addition  to  your  husband,  will  be  too  completely  absorbed  to  be 
weakly,  childish,  as  those  women  are  who  have  nothing  to 
think  of  and  nothing  to  do,  and  so  diffuse  their  feeble  faculties 
between  insipid  loving,  flirting,  and  fashion." 

"You  speak  as  if  I  had  already  uttered  the  irrevocable 


228  Victoire. 

'  Yes,' "  I  said,  taking  in  a  long  breath  to  free  my  voice  of  its 
quivering  vibrations,  that  it  might  sound  tense  and  firm  like 
his.  "  From  the  beginning  you  have  always  talked  as  if  I 
belonged  to  you,  till  at  last,  in  spite  of  myself  I  half  feel  that 
I  do.  If  fortune  had  not  made  me  so  greatly  your  debtor,  I 
should  think  that  I  had  the  right  at  least  to  feel  more  inde 
pendent.  I  cannot  forget  my  deep  obligation  to  you.  I  am 
melted  at  the  thought  of  your  long  unchanging  kindness.  I 
would  gladly  devote  my  life  to  you  from  pure  gratitude  if  I 
dared,  if  I  only  knew  that  till  the  end  of  life  I  could  love 
you  above  every  human  being.  But  I  am  afraid  to  marry 
simply  because  I  am  grateful,  or  simply  because  I  honor  you, 
or  feel  for  you  a  very  quiet  affection.  Perhaps  it  is  all  some 
natures  can  give ;  but  if  I  love  at  all,  I  want  to  love  a  great 
deal  more." 

"  Marry  me,  Yictoire,  because  you  honor  me  and  feel  for 
me  a  quiet  affection,  but  not  because  you  are  grateful.  I 
have  done  nothing  but  my  duty ;  nothing  but  what  I  would 
do  for  any  man  or  woman  whom  I  had  found  in  like  affliction. 
I  have  never  sought  to  place  you  under  personal  obligations 
to  me,  and  I  am  unwilling  that  you  should  feel  any.  If  you 
insist  upon  pursuing  your  lonely  life  of  toil,  the  indebtedness 
which  you  involuntarily  feel  can  be  cancelled  as  a  mere  busi 
ness  matter.  You  can  earn  more  than  a  woman's  average 
wages  if  you  choose  to  bring  your  art  down  to  a  material 
level  and  liave  health  to  pursue  it.  I  shall  never  take  advan 
tage  of  you  and  burden  you  with  a  load  of  hateful  obligation. 
For  your  own  sake  I  shall  allow  you  to  pay  me  what  you 
fancy  you  owe  me.  I  reverence  the  self-respect  of  a  true 
woman,  which  will  never  allow  her  to  become  the  voluntary 
recipient  of  favors  from  a  man  upon  whom  she  feels  that 
she  has  no  claim.  I  want  no  gratitude,  Victoire.  I  am  not 
willing  even  to  be  thanked  for  doing  my  duty.  Honor  and 
affection  from  you  are  all  that  I  ask  at  present.  You  will  live  to 
learn,  my  child,  that  they  make  the  very  warp  and  woof  of 
the  marriage  bond. 

"  It  is  not  possible  that  you  know  any  one  to  whom  you 
give  more,"  he  asked,  abruptly,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden 
thought,  turning  his  keen  eye  upon  me  in  one  scrutinizing 
gaze. 

"  No,"  I  answered,  with  a  faltering  voice.  As  I  spake,  that 
one  holy  face  rose  from  the  deeps  of  my  soul,  and  I  shivered 
while  I  saw  it.  If  I  should  speak  of  him,  Henri  Rochelle 
would  think  it  one  of  my  wildest  hallucinations — he  would 


Bel  Eden.  u  229 

smile  at  me  with  that  quiet  derisive  smile.     I  could  not  tell 
him ;  no,  I  could  not ! 

"  No,  I  do  not  know  any  one  to  love  better ;  I  have  only 
feared  that  some  time  I  might,"  I  said  aloud. 

"  Victoire,  you  have  not  a  morbid,  ill-regulated  nature  ;  if 
you  had,  I  would  attach  some  importance  to  your  fears. 
Honor  and  affection  are  strong  enough  to  save  you  as  long  as 
you  live." 

"  Henri  Rochelle,  you  have  dropped  a  plummet  far  down 
into  my  soul,  but  how  do  you  know  that  there  are  not  depths 
below  which  you  have  not  sounded  ?  Can  a  woman  know 
herself  at  twenty?" 

"  No,  not  if  she  is  as  unique  as  you  are.  You  are  an  odd 
creature,"  he  answered,  smiling  a  most  undisturbed  smile. 

We  were  riding  over  one  of  the  smoothest  of  roads  at  the 
slowest  of  paces.  Elms  reared  on  either  side  of  us  their 
grand  corrugated  pillars,  their  branches  meeting  high  above 
our  heads,  like  the  glorious  light,  inwoven  dome  of  a  gorgeous 
minster.  Birds  singing  amid  the  leafy,  wavy  glory;  winds, 
rippling  along  the  tasselled  boughs,  sent  down  flutterings  of 
delicious  sound — low,  flute-like,  as  would  an  organ  if  touched 
by  the  fingers  of  a  little  child.  Cottage,  villa,  and  mansion 
had  been  unheeded  while  we  talked ;  and  we  had  passed  far 
into  this  matchless  cathedral  aisle  before  I  became  conscious 
of  its  long  reach  of  glimmering*  sun  and  shadow,  of  its  waving 
incense,  of  its  murmurous  majesty. 

"Do  you  admire  this  home,  Victoire?"  asked  Henri  Ro 
chelle,  as  we  paused  before  a  delicately  fretted  iron  gate,  set 
like  an  open  screen  of  nchly-meshed  lace  in  a  deep  hedge  of 
arbor-vitse;  and  he  pointed  past  it  to  a  villa  which  stood  high 
on  a  sunny  slope  beyond  the  trees. 

"I  have  not  seen  anything  so  beautiful  for  a  long,  long 
time ;"  and  with  these  words  my  heart  wandered  far  away  to 
Les  Delices. 

"  Nor  I ;  not  in  this  country — scarcely  in  any  other.     It  is 
so  wondrously  lovely,  that  without  any  authority  beyond  my 
own  I  have  named  it  J3el  Eden.     Truly  it  is  Beautiful  Eden. 
The  trail  of  the  serpent  can  never  darken  its  brightness." 
/'Who  lives  here?" 

"No  one.  It  is  an  uninhabited  Paradise.  The  old  man 
who  takes  care  of  the  grounds  lives  in  that  cottage  below 
the  hill.  I  learned  from  him  that  it  is  owned  by  a  Southern 
gentleman  who  built  the  house  as  the  summer  home  of  a  deli 
cate  young  wife.  I  believe  that  she  died  before  it  was  com- 


230  Victoire. 

pleted ;  at  any  rate  it  has  never  been  occupied.  Still  its 
owner  sees  that  everything  about  is  kept  in  the  most  exqui 
site  order,  and  the  grounds  are  open  to  the  visits  of  strangers. 
I  often  drive  out  here.  It  does  me  good  to  be  reminded  that, 
sin-cursed  as  it  is,  the  earth  still  holds  such  a  spot  as  this. 
Shall  we  go  in  ?  There  comes  the  gardener  to  unlock  the 
gate." 

The  old  man  advanced  with  a  pleasant  look  of  recognition 
on  his  face,  and  at  his  touch  the  screen  of  massiv«  lace  part 
ed,  and  the  broad  serpentine  avenue,  with  its  flowery  borders, 
lay  open  to  our  horses'  feet.  It  wandered  in  and  out  among 
the  trees,  which  threw  over  it  the  deep  shadow  of  their  imme 
morial  growth  ;  now  running  through  rifts  of  glimmering 
shadow,  now  resting  in  broad  spots  of  flickering  sunshine,  till 
alternating  dusk,  and  dawn,  and  dazzling  day  chased  each 
other  along  this  winding,  loitering  path.  Low  seats  braided  of 
unctuous  roots,  of  quaint  gnarled  boughs,  stood  in  green  niches 
between  the  trees.  Statues,  softly  revealed  against  the  dark 
foliage,  peered  from  dim,  unexpected  vistas  ;  nymphs  and 
fawns,  who  stood  transfixed  in  dumb  delight  to  h'nd  in  this 
utilitarian  land  in  this  late  day  a  haunt  as  sylvan  beau 
tiful  as  their  own  lost  Arcadia.  The  air  distilled  all  subtle, 
all  undefinable  aromas.  Birds  warbled  their  gala  operas  in 
the  sheltering  depth  of  patriarchal  boughs.  The  plash  of 
near  fountains,  the  low  gurgle  of  distant  trickling  waters, 
the  surge  of  the  resonant  river  we  heard  as  we  emerged 
into  the  broad  sunshine  and  lifted  our  eyes  to  the  home  of 
Bel  Eden. 

Unlike  most  American  abodes,  it  did  not  offend  with  its 
stark  smartness,  its  vulgar  newness,  its  flaring  colors.  It  was 
not  an  ugly  excrescence,  a  deformity  blotting  the  beauty  of 
that  matchless  landscape.  It  seemed  a  portion  of  its  harmo 
nious  growth  emerging  from  its  deep  bosom  like  its  own 
melodious  trees ;  a  flower  of  indestructible  beauty  blossom 
ing  in  stone.  It  suggested  the  airy  elegance  of  an  Italian 
villa,  with  the  warm  comfort  of  an  English  home.  Its  low, 
ork'l  windows  stole  out  into  the  flower-enamelled  turf,  hint 
ing  of  broad  sunny  apartments  and  home-born  joy  within.  It 
had  wide  piazzas  with  sculptured  pillars;  it  had  drooping  bal 
conies,  and  fringe-like  balustrades  hung  with  net-work,  ethereal 
as  the  crystallizations  of  crusted  frost.  At  one  extremity  a 
tower,  a  massive  pilaster,  seemed  to  grow  from  the  grass  up 
into  the  soft  light,  its  pale  stone  merging  almost  imperceptibly 
at  last  into  the  pale  ether.  Bas-reliefs  encrusted  its  aerial 


Bel  Eden.  231 

tals,  statues  stood  in  its  deep  embrasures.  Its""mullioned 
windows  of  many-colored  glass  gleamed  all  aflame.  Sap 
phire,  emerald,  topaz  burned  in  those  diamond  panes ;  ruby 
dripped  through  their  brightness  like  wine-drops  from  over 
brimmed  goblets. 

No  redundant  vines  eclipsed  this  profuse  flowering  of  art, 
yet  ivies  hung  their  green  embroidery  of  leaves  over  every 
angle  ;  myrtles  strewed  purple  stars  along  the  pale  stone 
walls.  No  substantial  element  was  wanting  in  this  structure, 
yet  it  seemed  to  pervade  the  mind  with  the  indescribable 
charm  of  the  visionary  palaces  which  rise  by  magic  in  our 
dreams.  The  lawn,  sloping  away  from  its  threshold,  was 
wide  and  sunny.  In  its  midst  a  massive  fountain  tossed 
into  thf  air  its  innumerable  crystal  jets.  Their  infinitesimal 
bells  stirred  all  the  air  with  chimes,  as  they  fell  back  in  merry, 
murmurous  rings,  or  soft  resounding  plashes,  upon  the  tessel 
lated  floor  of  their  marble  basin.  This  was  girdled  with 
flowers  gleaming  in  the  turf — pansies,  hyacinths,  daisies,  ver 
benas,  heliotropes  which  spring's  warm-lipped  angels  had 
kissed  into  conscious  life.  Antique  vases,  tilled  with  trailing 
plants,  sent  by  their  drifts  of  fragance,  while  all  the  air  was 
purpled  with  lilacs  and  perfumed  with  magnolias.  Outside  of 
this  riant  beauty  spread  away  the  majestic  background,  the 
gorgeous  shadow  of  the  scene.  We  looked  away  to  the 
shadowy  arcades  and  leafy  cloisters  of  venerable  cathedral 
trees.  The  dark  dome  of  the  larch,  the  majesty  of  the  silex, 
the  breezy  joy  of  the  maple,  the  spirituel  grace  of  the  wil 
low,  the  shivering  sighs  of  the  electric  pines,  all  gladdened  or 
saddened  the  grounds  of  Bel  Eden.  A  mad  brook,  dashing 
through  a  deep  yet  sunny  gorge  on  one  side  of  the  over 
hanging  lawn,  rushed  away  to  the  river.  Through  the  trees 
we  caught  flashes  of  the  Hudson,  saw  the  rim  of  its  dark-blue 
highlands  touch  the  sky,  and  saw  in  the  distance  in  dim  per 
spective  the  great  metropolis. 

"  I  would  like  a  studio  in  the  highest  chamber  of  that  tow 
er,"  I  said,  as  we  sat  down  in  a  sylvan  seat  beside  a  magnolia 
tree  white  with  blossoms.  "The  turret-chamber  at  Les  De- 
lices  was  mine  from  childhood ;  I  think  that  fact  must  have 
given  me  such  a  proclivity  for  high  nooks.  I  always  feel  as 
if  I  were  choking  in  a  low  room,  and  anywhere  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  the  ground." 

"  I  have  not  told  you,  Victoire,  that  one  charm  Bel  Eden 
had  for  me,  aside  from  its  own  marvellous  beauty,  is  that,  in 
a  remote  way,  it  reminds  me  of  Les  Delices.  Yet  I  cannot 


232  Victoire. 

define  the^esemblance.     Do  you  perceive  it  ?     What  is  it  ?" 
asked  my  friend. 

"  Yes,  I  perceive  it,  but  did  not  speak  of  it,  lest  you  should 
call  my  imagination  to  an  account.  See !  That  sculptured 
fountain,  with  water  gushing  from  its  hundred  marble  lilies,  is 
modelled  precisely  like  the  one  which  frolics  before  the  veran 
da  at  Les  Delices.  That  brook,  too,  breaking  through  the  seam 
of  yonder  hill,  cooling  the  heart  of  that  deep  gorge,  is  certainly' 
a  distant  cousin  of  the  one  which  runs  away  from  the  cascade 
and  goes  out  to  cheer  the  vineyard.  But  this  house,  this 
marble  dream,  poor  old  Les  Delices,  with  its  scarlet  turrets, 
never  thought  of  being  so  inspiredly  beautiful.  Bel  £den  is 
a  poem  ;  it  could  only  dawn  upon  the  conception  of  a  many- 
Bided  poet-soul ;  it  suggests  all  lovely,  untenable  thing% — hints 
at  all  that  we  dream  of,  yet  never  see." 

We  relapsed  into  a  long  silence,  mesmerized  by  the  subtle 
magnetism  of  an  all-diffusing  beauty. 

"  Victoire,  Frederick  desired  it ;  he  desired  nothing  more 
for  you,  for  me." 

I  started  suddenly,  recalled  from  the  far-off  countries  of 
thought.  It  was  his  own  manly  tone,  deep,  intense,  almost  sad. 

As  he  spoke,  two  years  dropped  into  chaos,  and  left  me 
standing  by  Frederick's  side.  It  was  not  the  memory,  the 
dead  name  of  every  day,  that  I  had  with  me,  but  my  living 
brother.  Yes,  Frederick  desired  it!  He  loved  this  man, 
he  loved  me;  and  although  he  had  not  influenced  my 
choice,  yet  he  desired  it !  My  father,  my  mother,  would 
have  chosen  for  me  this  sheltered  lot.  After  all,  why  should  I 
persist  in  struggling  with  the  world  ?  Its  prizes  were  not 
worth  the  winning.  Why  should  I  reject  this  noble  man, 
whom  I  revered  and  trusted,  for  the  sake  of  an  impossible 
dream  ?  There  was  nothing  in  the  world  which  I  needed  so 
much  as  rest.  •  Besides,  he  had  said  that  I  could  make  him 
happy ;  now  I  made  no  one  happy." 

"  Why  this  impotent  delaying  of  what  must  be  ?"  He  spoke 
these  words  with  deep  vibration  in  his  voice,  as  if  he  felt  the 
shock  of  a  smothered  flood  of  emotion.  He  snatched  my 
hand.  I  had  never  seen  in  him  anything  so  near  like 
impulse. 

"  Victoire,  let  us  join  hands  now?,  and  walk  the  rest  of  our 
life-way  together.  I  love  you."  Never  had  such  a  thrill  of 
tenderness  quivered  through  his  voice  to  my  heart  before. 

"  Henri  Rochelle,  you  are  dear  to  me.  I  will  marry  you. 
God  pity  and  forgive  me  if  I  sin  in  saying  so." 


A  Marriage  before  the  Last  Chapter.       233 

I  spoke  quickly,  lest  a  great  power  within  should  snatch 
back  my  words  ere  I  should  have  power  to  utter  them. 

One  seemed  to  stand  before  me  whose  deep  eyes  touched 
my  soul — tilled  it !  The  air  seemed  instinct  with  his  being ; 
not  Henry  Rochelle,  not  Frederick — it  was  the  stranger  of 
Les  Delices. 


1 


A   MARRIAGE   BEFORE  THE    LAST   CHAPTER. 

"  Whom  first  we  love,  you  know  we  seldom  wed  ; 

Time  rules  us  all ;  and  life   indeed  is  not 
The  thing  we  planned  it  out,  ere  hope  was  dead ; 
And  then,  we  women  cannot  choose  our  lot." 

"  I  don't  like  Victoire." 

Of  course  you  don't.  Who  ever  anticipated  so  pleasant 
a  catastrophe  !  If  she  were  not  independent  of  your  '  like,' 
she  would  never  have  had  the  courage  to  tell  a  story  which 
proves  her  to  be  anything  but  an  angel. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  her,"  says  a  strong-minded  woman  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  who  has  devoted  twenty  of  the  best  years 
of  her  life  to  wrangling  about  the  "  woman  question."  "  I 
am  disgusted  with  her  weakness.  She  began- life  well.  She 
might  have  wrought  out  for  herself  a  splendid  career.  She 
might  have  proved  to  the  arrogant  bipeds  of  the  masculine 
gender  that,  though  they  will  not  confess  it,  women  can  per 
form  wonders.  But  to  succumb  so  early,  to  marry  so  soon, 
to  make  herself  a  mere  appendage,  a  perfect  cipher  to  man, 
and  such  a  man — one  feeling  so  grand  that  he  can  scarcely 
live.  Now  she  is  a  hindrance  to  her  sex.  Just  such  women 
forge  our  chains  on  tighter,  and  do  their  best  to  make  us  just 
the  slaves  which  we  are.  And  she  might  have  done  such  a 
work !  Oh,  I  am  disgusted  with  her,  so  I  am." 

My  dear  lady,  I  suppose  I  could  not  possibly  make  you 
believe  that  there  is  not  on  earth  a  more  miserable  object 
than  a  rebelliously  ambitious  woman.  Not  one  more  in  need 
of  pity  ;  for,  with  all  her  devouring  ambition,  her  towering 
pride,  with  all  her  rebellious  efforts  to  break  the  bands  which 
bind  her,  she  can  never  escape  the  penalties  of  her  human 
condition.  She  has  given  herself  up  to  a  life  of  fever  and 
disappointment,  whose  inordinate  hunger  for  applause,  for 
notoriety  in  the  world  of  Art,  Letters,  Politics,  or  Fashion, 
as  crushed  out  the  holier  aspirations  of  the  natural  woman. 


234  Victoire. 

Is  it  not  an  ignoble  pursuit  to  seek  in  the  benison  of  culture, 
of  genius,  of  beauty,  not  their  own  sacred  uses  or  beautiful 
ends,  but  the  empty  fame  with  which  they  may  cover  one 
poor  little  name  ?  Fame  is  a  goading  word,  hard,  hollow.  Is 
it  worth  so  much,  the  telling  over  of  one's  name  from  gene 
ration  to  generation,  if  that  be  all  ?  The  atoms  of  matter 
which  make  our  material  body,  ever  changing,  ever  renewed, 
will  be  transfigured  eternally.  Spirit  will  quicken  spirit  for 
evermore.  Thought,  transfusing  itself  into  thought,  will  live 
long  after  each  brain  through  which  it  passed  is  forgotten. 
Is  it  not  enough  that  we  shall  live  thus  through  the  infinite 
ages ;  that  the  circuit  of  the  universe  will  be  ours  ?  They  who 
have  won  the  noblest  immortality  of  earth,  never  sought  it 
in  life.  They  consecrated  their  noblest  faculties  to  the  noblest 
ends  without  a  thought  of  reward.  Fame  was  granted  them, 
not  because  they  sought  after  it,  but  because  it  was  deserved. 

I  had  this  satisfaction  (so  great  a  one  to  either  woman 
or  man),  he  had  chosen  me  for  myself.  I  had  nothing  else 
to  give  him.  There  were  people  who  thought  me  very  dis 
agreeable,  and  they  thought  right.  Mrs.  Wiggins  was  one. 
She  hated  me  for  my  reticent  hauteur,  my  dumb  contempt 
of  her  vicious  hypocrisy.  M.  Petiman  was  one,  my  whilom 
transient  acquaintance,  whom  I  had  impressed  as  a  most  arro 
gant  and  self-assuming  young  person,  who  dared  to  Cherish 
a  most  unwarrantably  high  opinion  both  of  her  position  and 
powers,  and  to  award  to  his  insinuating,  sycophantic  sup 
pleness  all  the  disdain  which  it  merited.  Rev.  Jonathan 
Bunkum  would  have  been  one,  if  it  had  been  possible  for 
that  gentleman  for  the  space  of  two  consecutive  minutes,  to 
have  thought  of  any  one  but  himself.  Yet  Henri  Kochelle 
had  chosen  me  for  what  he  believed  that  I  might  be  to  him. 
Nothing  does  a  woman's  heart  so  importunately  crave  as  the 
knowledge  that  she  is  lovely  at  least  to  one. 

The  world  is  full  of  women  who  would  gladly  give  all  their 
rich  possessions  in  exchange  for  this  one  sweet  assurance. 
"  Oh !  if  I  could  only  know  that  he  loves  me,  only  me,"  they 
say  ;  "  that  I  could  be  certain  that  the  gilded  accidents  of 
my  lot  have  not  ensnared  him ;  that  he  has  not  been  dazzled 
by  the  perishable  baubles  which  make  my  surroundings,  but 
which  can  never  add  a  single  charm  to  the  beauty  of  my  soul !" 
Alas  !  many  a  girl  blindly  fancies  that  she  has  won  a  loyal, 
manly  heart,  when  in  reality  she  receives  only  a  body  and  :i 
name  in  barter  for  her  money.  You  may  thank  your  golden 
setting,  the  gorgeous  background  on  which  your  tame  colors 


A  Marriage  before  the  Last  Chapter.       239 

are  embroidered,  for  your  graceful  husband  and  genial  home. 
You  think  all  this  was  naught ;  that  it  was  only  yourself  who 
won  him  ?  Poor  simpleton ;  there  is  something  pitiable  in 
your  delusion  ! 

He  tries  to  persuade  himself  of  the  same  fact,  that  it  is  the 
maiden,  the  maiden  only,  whom  he  seeks.  He  says  :  "  To  be 
sure,  her  family  influence  would  be  of  immense  advantage  to 
me  ;  and  her  money — yes,  I  need  it  in  my  business.  Position  ! 
Well,  a  young  man  just  beginning  life  always  needs  to  be 
strengthened  in  his  position.  To  be  able  to  refer  (carelessly, 
of  course,)  to  Hon.  Land  Shark,  M.C.,  Rt.  Rev.  Dr.  Skin 
Flint,  D.  D.,  LL.D.,  the  poet  Skim  Milk,  the  universal  traveller 
and  prospective  millionaire,  as  my  near  relatives,  would  be  no 
drawback  as  the  world  goes.  "  I  care  nothing  about  them  ; 
of  course  not;  I  care  only  for  Gilda.  Gilda  is  a  good  girl. 
Gilda  is  a  stylish  girl;  she  will  set  off  an  establishment  well. 
Not  very  handsome,  to  be  sure  ;  not  clever,  people  say ;  but 
what  do  people  know  about  it  ?  Besides,  what  is  more  tire 
some  than  a  woman  who  knows  too  much  ?  I'm  afraid  of 
clever  women.  Gilda  is  the  one  of  all  others  whom  I  prefer 
for  my  wife." 

He  utters  the  last  words  with  a  most  impetuous  emphasis, 
as  if  to  banish  the  young  face  already  shaping  itself  in  his 
thought  ;  the  very  one  which  steals  unbidden  into  his  nightly 
dreams.  Pearla,  the  snow-drop,  the  pure  pale  blossom,  bloom 
ing  in  the  snow  of  poverty,  he  sees  her  face,  and  his  heart 
suddenly  leaps  in  a  strange,  sweet  tumult.  "  Pearla !  Well 
— yes — I  could  have  loved  her — but  it  is  out  of  the  question. 
She  is  poor ;  so  am  I.  Romance,  sentiment,  love,  don't  pay 
as  society  stands.  No ;  they  are  all  below  par.  Pearla,  my 
darling,  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  marry  you.  I  must  forsake 
and  shun  you  from  this  very  hour.  I  must  be  practical  and 
sensible.  Gilda  will  do.  On  the  whole,  Gilda  I  prefer  (for  a 
wife).  Gilda  is  a  good  girl.  She  loves  me  desperately." 

Is  this  life's  greatest  misery,  its  chillest,  dreariest  despair, 
which  falls  on  us  some  day  with  the  consciousness  that  if  for 
tune  had  been  kinder,  if  greater  wealth  had  lent  its  glitter  to 
our  surroundings,  if  more  generous  circumstances  had  enve 
loped  us  with  a  beautifying  halo,  an  artificial  yet  alluring 
atmosphere,  which  mellows  and  goldens  every  object  which 
it  enfolds,  we  should  have  been  more  earnestly  sought, 
more  fairly  judged,  more  tenderly  dealt  with  by  one  from, 
whom  nature  gave  us  the  right  to  demand  the  rarest  gifts  of 
friendship  ?  Then  dawns  life's  first  great  consciousness  of  loss. 


236 


Victoire. 


Oh,  awful,  isolated  sorrow !      Oh,  endless,  enveloping  pain, 
which  can  never  be  averted  and  never  shared  ! 

Because  no  glamor  hovered  over  us,  because  we  sat  in  the 
cold,  alone  with  only  our  own  spirit  to  make  light  and  warmth 
around  us,  we  were  left  alone.  The  tender  warmth  of  our  single 
heart  could  not  reach  this  soul  wrapped  in  so  dense  a  cloud  of 
worldliness.  We  were  mistaken.  Brave  heart,  receive  this 
taunting  truth  with  proud  yet  saddest  seeming.  Open  the  door 
with  regnant  hand,  with  calmest  unction  bid  it  enter.  Bid  it 
enter ;  though  you  know  that  its  steel  will  cut  through  your 
tenderest  fibre,  though  you  know  that  it  will  stab  and  rend 
you,  still  bid  it  enter ;  it  is  the  truth.  Believe  not  the  clinging 
falsehoods  which  hang  their  pretty  parasites  about  it ;  they 
are  as  false  as  they  are  beautiful.  They  whisper  of  an  un 
filled  world  lying  far  below  the  metallic  mail  which  material 
interest  has  forged  about  your  friend.  With  honeyed  words 
they  tell  you  that  you,  in  your  great  need  of  love  and  bless 
ing,  could  fill  this  world  with  the  morning  bloom  of  most  deli 
cious  affection.  Believe  them  not ;  the  brazen  shield  will 
never  be  lifted  that  you  may  enter  in.  Of  what  account  is 
all  your  pent  yet  prodigal  sweetness,  all  your  seductive 
magnetism,  all  your  proud  and  pure  aspiring,  all  your  need 
of  love  and  loving,  weighed  in  the  balance  with  worldly  inter 
est,  with  the  fawning  flattery  of  the  oily  tongue,  to  this  idol 
of  yours  eager  for  place,  emulous  for  power  ?  With  this  truth 
rending  your  soul,  you  can  live  on.  You  can  live  on,  though 
disappointment  deluge  your  summer  world  till  not  an  olive 
leaf  is  found  in  all  the  dreary  waste  for  you.  You  can  live 
on  patiently,  calmly,  till  the  tender  hand  of  the  pitying  God 
stretches  down  from  the  window  of  Heaven  and  draws  you 
up  to  rest  in  the  great  ark  of  His  love. 

Bury  the  beautiful  friendship  of  yesterday,  and  go  away 
and  leave  it  in  its  grave  alone.  Bury  it ;  leave  it ;  you  can 
live  on.  Its  imploring  eyes  will  look  mournfully  at  you 
through  the  door  of  the  past ;  its  retributive  face  will  haunt 
your  present  and  throw  its  baleful  shadow  between  you  and 
every  dawning  joy ;  yet  remember  it  is  only  its  ghost,  not 
•the  warm,  living  human  thing,  which  you  loved,  and  cherished. 
Brave  heart,  you  can  live  on  ! 

I  was  independent  at  least  in  this — Henri  Rochelle  should 
not  continue  to  cover  me  with  presents;  I  would  accept 
from  him  no  bridal  trousseau.  I  would  earn  ray  own  wed 
ding-dress.  I  was  almost  well  now,  and  felt  quite  able  to 
return  to  my  accustomed  tasks. 


A  Marriage  before  the  Last  Chapter.      237 

"  Let  me  sketch  designs  for  the  most  beautiful  book  yon 
have.  I  cannot  tell  how  beautiful  I  shall  try  to  make  them, 
for  it  is  the  last  work  I  shall  do  for  you,"  I  said  to  my  dear, 
honored  employer,  as  I  appeared  before  him  after  my  long 
absence. 

"  The  last  work  !  Why,  we  have  been  waiting  for  you  to 
get  well  to  do  the  prettiest  job  that  we  have  had  ordered  for 
a  long  time — descriptive  illustrations  for  a  volume  of  choice 
poems.  I  have  more  work  saved  for  you,  besides.  What  is 
the  matter  ?  Are  you  going  to  leave  NewYork  ?" 

"  No ;  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"  Married  !  Well,  you  take  it  very  quietly.  You  tell  it 
in  the  same  tone  in  which  you  might  say — '  I  am  going 
to  be  buried.'  I  wish  you  a  life  of  happiness,"  he  said, 
extending  his  hand.  "  Can't  you  sketch  a  little  after  you  are 
married  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  can,  to  prove  my  gratitude  to  you ;  but  what 
time  I  have  for  art  I  shall  usually  devote  to  painting.  I 
painted  always  until  you  gave  me  employment.  Oh,  how 
kind  you  were  !  You  were  a  friend  to  me  when  I  needed 
one  the  most — when  I  was  sick  and  weary,  homeless  and 
almost  hopeless.  You  gave  me  work,  and  more,  you  gave 
me  kindness.  I  shall  never  forget  you,  never ;  and  I  will 
sketch  for  you,  sometimes,  if  it  will  please  you." 

There  was  a  tender  light  in  the  eyes  which  looked  down 
\\pon  me ;  very  commonplace  eyes  most  people  would  have 
called  them,  but  they  were  more  than  beautiful  to  me. 

"  God  bless  you,  now  and  for  evermore,"  he  said. 

He  gave  me  the  poems,  which  were  to  be  embalmed  in 
rich-tinted  paper,  in  rare  setting  of  gold  and  velvet ;  and 
the  very  first  one  which  I  glanced  at  was  Coleridge's  "  Ge- 
nevieve :" 

"  I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 

I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story ;        • 
An  old,  rude  song,  that  suited  well 

That  ruin,  wild  and  hoary. 
She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 

But  gaze  upon  her  face." 

Here  was  a  perfect  picture  in  melodious  words.  Could  I 
embody  it  as  perfectly  in  melodious  lines — the  "ruin,  old 
and  hoary" — the  loving  troubadour  pElying  his  "soft  and 
doleful  air" — the  maiden  "  with  downcast  eyes  and  modest 


t^8  Victoire. 

grace  ?"     Well,  I  tried  ;  and,  at  least,  thus  I  earned  my  bri 
dal  trousseau,  my  wedding  dress. 

My  kind  employer  could  not  have  expressed  my  mental 
state  more  completely  than  in  the  words,  "  you  take  it  quiet 
ly."  Quiet  must  follow  a  storm.  I  had  resisted  my  destiny 
so  long,  that,  from  the  moment  of  accepting  it,  I  sank  down 
in  peace.  Weary  of  the  long  struggle,  I  was  glad  passively 
to  rest.  Yes,  I  was  very  quiet.  I  had  accepted  my  lot,  and 
now  seemed  to  expect  nothing,  to  fear  nothing. 

"  Sing  it  again,  Morna ;  do." 

"  Do  you  love  it  so  much  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes !     Then  it  is  the  last  evening  that  we  shall  ever 
sit  together  like  this.     Fill  it  full  of  song.     I  want  the  melody  • 
of  your  voice  woven  with  the  last  hours  of  my  maiden  life — a 
memory  to  carry  with  me  to  my  grave." 

She  sang  it  again,  that  wonderfully  sad  sweet  song  of 
George  P.  Morris : 

"  How  we  met  and  loved  and  parted, 

None  but  God  can  ever  know ; 
How  the  pure  and  gentle-hearted, 

Loved  and  perished  years  ago. 
Hearts  that  truly  love  forget  not — 

They're  the  same  through  weal  or  woe ; 
And  the  sun  of  memory  sets  not, 

In  that  grave  of  years  ago." 

It  was  a  June  twilight ;  the  breath  of  the  month  of  rosea 
stole  in  through  -the  open  casement,  kissing  our  foreheads, 
toying  with  our  hair.  The  entrancing  days,  the  alluring 
nights,  so  steeped  in  perfume,  so  redolent  of  bloom  and 
beauty,  seemed  made  only  for  the  richest  sensuous  life. 
Sentient  existence  grew  more  misty  and  dreamlike  with  the 
culminating,  adolescent  hours ;  yet  it  seemed  as  if  we  could 
not  live  enough  in  the  delicious  air  of  these  young,  perfect 
days.  We  sat  close  together.  Hope,  on  a  low  stool  at  my 
feet,  nestled  her  curls  in  my  lap,  folding  one  hand  in  her  little 
palm,  while  Morna  held  the  other,  as  she  sat  by  my  side. 
The  next  day  I  was  to  be  married.  Three  snowy  dresses  ly 
ing  side  by  side,  revealed  themselves  through  the  purpling 
light  and  golden  shadow  of  the  hour.  They  were  of  pure, 
sheer  muslin,  as  softly  meshed  as  the  most  fibrous  threaded 
lace.  They  were  utterly  unadorned,  save  with  their  o\vn 
aerial  ampleness,  their  misty,  far-floating  folds.  They  were 
precisely  alike,  but  ^ne  was  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  tulle. 
This  was  my  bridal-robe  and  veil.  (I  tell  this  in  parenthesis 


A  Marriage  before  the  Last  Chapter.      239 

to  my  lady  friends.)  (I  must  make  another  parenthesis  to 
tell  my  lady  friends  that  I  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  my 
wedding-dress.)  It  falls  far  below  the  standard  of  your  aris 
tocratic  taste,  no  doubt,  but  I  would  not  have  exchanged  it 
for  regal  satin  or  crinkling  brocade,  in  all  their  stately  stiff 
ness.  Such  are  harmonious  with  grand  parlors  and  state 
occasions.  But  pure  muslin,  in  its  virgin  transparency,  is  a 
meet  robe  for  the  unsullied  maiden  when  she  yields  up  her 
being  to  the  love  and  keeping  of  another.  Yes,  I  would  have 
chosen  my  marriage-robe  amid  a  thousand  rarer  fabrics.  It 
needed  nothing,  I  thought,  but  wreaths  of  living  orange-blos 
soms  to  make  it  perfect.  Thus  I  saw  it  before  my  eyes,  a  drift 
of  snowy  cloud,  lying  against  the  dimness — my  bridal  dress  ! 
I  had  been  gay  all  day — rather,  I  had  tried  to  be.  A  fitful, 
wild  sort  of  gaiety  it  was,  I  fancy.  I  talked  all  manner  of 
extravagant  talk,  which  made  Hope  laugh  her  bird-laugh, 
and  Mprna  gaze  at  me  in  the  tenderest  wonder.  In  short  I 
made  most  spasmodic  efforts  to  keep  from  weeping,  and  suc 
ceeded  by  rising  to  the  opposite  extreme.  But  now  the  day 
was  done.  The  pulses  of  the  twilight  throbbed  against  my 
own  ;  I  sat  within  the  sphere  of  her  magnetism ;  what  could 
I  do  but  yield  myself  to  her  soft,  sad  mood.  Then  this  ten 
der  memorial  song  of  Morris  mad.e  me  sadder — or  was  it  the 
music,  so  tremulously  sweet  ?  or  was  it  Morna's  voice,  in  its 
wondrous  cadence  of  soul-melting  melody  ?  You  know  that 
I  told  you  before  that  Morna's  voice  ever  filled  me  with  a 
bliss  that  was  half  a  pain  ;  that  I  loved  it  for  all  that  it  made 
me  forget,  for  all  that  it  made  me  remember.  She  passed 
from  the  simple  song,  to  warble  snatches  from  operas  which 
her  teacher  taught  her  long  before.  She  had  never  sung  them 
to  me,  probably  on  account  of  the  painful  memories  which 
were  linked  with  them.  But  now  her  soul  seemed  to  break 
away  from  the  chain  which  bound  and  hurt  it,  and,  like  a  bird 
let  loose  from  wiry  prison  out  into  the  infinite  liberty  of  space, 
she  seemed  to  dissolve  herself  in  song.  The  little  room  swam 
in  a  dilating  sea  of  rapturous  sound  ;  the  warm  air  shivered 
with  the  rapt  vibrations,  the  mellifluous  falls  of  most  imploring, 
most  delicious  melody.  I  listened  entranced  ;  every  nerve 
drank — all  my  soul  drank,  yet  seemed  not  to  overflow.  This 
was  for  me  Morna's  last,  her  richest  gift,  ere  I  passed  from 
her  into  a  new  life.  She  sang  sweet  airs  from  Norma,  from 
Lucrezia  Borgia,  from  Lucia  di  Z,ammermoor,  and  at  last 
broke  forth  in  the  pathetic  music  of  I  Vespri  Siciliani  of 
Verdi.  It  was  the  mournful  strain  of  Arrigo,  which  he  sang 


2:j.o  Victoire. 

after  he  had  lost  the  love  of  the  Duchess  Elena,  because  he 
had  saved  the  life  of  Guido,  the  murderer  of  her  brother, 
who,  alas !  was  also  the  father  of  Arrigo.  He  had  not  been 
able  to  destroy  his  father,  even  to  fulfil  the  vow  of  Elena ;  yet 
he  could  not  renounce  her  love.  His  imploring  words  to  her, 
Morna  sang : 

"Giorno  di  pianto,  di  fier  dolorel 

Mentre  1'amore  sorrise  a  me. 
H  ciel  dirado  quel  aogno  aurato, 
II  cor  piagato  tutto  perde  I 
Sovra  il  mio  capo ; 
II  folgor  scoppia 
E  in  me  raddoppia 

L'atro  dolor  I 
Nel  tuo  disprezzo : 

Vivere,  o  cara, 
'E  pena  amara 
E  morte  al  cor !" 

• 

She  sang  the  reply  of  Elena,  and,  as  she  hovered  before  the 
last  four  lines,  she  clasped  my  hand  closer,  and  turned  her 
deep  eyes  full  upon  mine.  All  that  I  had  ever  imagined  of 
tenderness,  all  that  I  had  ever  dreamed  of  love,  all  that  I  had 
ever  conceived  of  a  high  immortal  sadness — I  saw  in  those  fa 
thomless  eyes,  while  her  far  vtuce  hung  pendulous  above  these 
words:- 

"  S  fido  le  folgori 

Del  rio  destino, 
Se  ate  vicino 
Potro  morir !" 

Again  she  sang  it,  her  hand  still  clasping  mine,  her  deep  eyes 
melting  into  my  soul : 

"I  defy  the  lightnings 
Of  my  evil  destiny, 
If  near  to  thee 
I  may  die." 

"  If  near  to  thee  I  may  die !"  The  wondrous  voice  lingered 
suspended  over  this  line,  yet  melting  it  at  last  in  melody, 
which  quivered  through  all  my  being,  than  which  there  will 
be  no  sweeter  note  in  all  the  symphonies  of  its  future  eter 
nity. 

The  air  was  still  tremulous  with  its  music,  when  we  heard 
the  well  known  step,  not  rapid,  not  slow — easy,  equable,  with 
that  clear,  decided  rebound  which  indicated^power,  character, 
will ;  the  well  known  knock,  not  abrupt  uor  harsh ;  not  eager 


A  Marriage  before  the  Last  Chapter.      241 

nor  presuming ;  but  deep,  quiet,  certain  ;  and  in  a  moment 
more  Henri  Rochelle  sat  by  the  open  window  before  us. 

"Is  it  possible  !  Was  that  you  who  were  singing  just  now, 
Miss  Avondale  ?"  he  inquired  of  Morna.  She  seemed  embar 
rassed. 

"  Yes,  it  was  Morna,"  I  answered.  "  Did  you  never  hear 
her  sing  before  ?" 

"  I  was  singing  for  Victoire ;  it  is  our  last  evening  to 
gether,  you  know,"  she  said,  in  a  faltering  voice, 

"  Yes,  I  know  that  it  is  your  last  evening  together  in  this 
little  stifling  chamber.  But,  Miss  Avondale,  you  can  become 
a  great  prima  donna,  if  you  will.  I  have  been  patiently  wait 
ing  for  you  to  develop  some  great  gift.  I  did  not  know 
what  it  might  be ;  yet  I  have  been  expecting  it  every  day.  I 
was  sure  of  the  great  soul,  but  I  knew  nothing  of  the  wonder 
ful  voice.  It  shall  receive  all  the  benefit  of  the  highest  cul 
ture  ;  then  it  will  be  to  you  not  only  a  fortune  but  a  perpetual 

joy-" 

At  these  words  Morna's  fingers  tightened  about  my  hand 
till  it  ached  in  their  convulsed  grasp.  She  breathed  deep 
and  quick,  yet  said  nothing. 

"  You  speaU  of  this  being  your  last  evening  with  Victoire ; 
it  need  not  be  unless  you  choose  to  be  separated  from  her. 
You  remember  that  the  first  morning  in  which  I  saw  you  I 
assured  you  that  you  should  not  be  separated.  Victoire's 
home  is  yours  as  long  .as  it  will  add  to  your  happiness  to 
share  it ;  and  this  child,  I  am  sure  we  all  need  her"  he  said, 
reaching  down  his  hand  to  Hope,  who  now  sat  very  erect  on 
her  little  stool,  having  been  drawn  up  tTo  that  rather  unnatu 
ral  position  by  her  very  active  veneration  for  Mr.  Rochelle. 
She  always  sat  before  him  as  if  he  was  a  god. 

"  In  the  meantime  you  must  have  the  best  music  masters 
which  the  city  will  afford,"  he  added,  looking  from  Hope  to 
Morna. 

She  seemed  to  rally  all  her  inward  forces  in  one  long 
breath. 

"  Mr.  Rochelle,  how  kind,  how  very  kind  you  are ;  I  thank 
you  from  my  heart,  but " 

"  You  are  such  a  kind  young  lady,  I  know  that  you  will 
excuse  me  from  listening  to  a  formidable  array  of  objections, 
when  I  can  assure  you  that  I  can  anticipate  them  all.  I  have 
become  somewhat  acquainted  with  young  ladies'  objections," 
he  said,  in  a  slightly  ironical  tone.  "  There  is  a  world  of  pru 
dence  and  girlish  foresight  in  that  solemn  'but.'  I  honor 

11 


242  Victoire. 

you  for  it,  but  do  not  accept  it,  Miss  Avondale.  It  means 
simply  this:  You  feel  that  you  cannot  accept  favors  from 
one  who  is  under  no  obligation  to  confer  them  ;  favors  which 
you  fear  that  you  can  never  reciprocate.  Now  I  offer  you  no 
favors,  but  will  make  a  business  arrangment.  You  need  ac 
cept  nothing  which  you  cannot  pay  back  with  interest.  You 
surely  will  not  refuse  to  fit  yourself  for  a  large  and  beautiful 
sphere?  You  will  not  perish  over  your  needle  while  you 
carry  a  whole  bank  in  your  throat  from  which  you  have 
never  drawn  a  single  cent?  You  will  not  choose  a  dwarfed 
and  smothered  life,  when  a  glorious  yet  womanly  career  is 
open  to  you  ;  will  you,  Miss  Avondale  ?" 

Morna  could  not  speak.  The  fulfilment  of  her  dearest 
wishes,  the  fruition  of  her  long-cherished  yet  most  hopeless 
desires,  seemed  to  have  come  to  her  so  suddenly  from  such  an 
unexpected  source  that  she  was  stunned  with  the  great  joy. 

"  I  have  wished,  prayed  for  it  so  much,  it  seems  as  if  it 
could  not,  could  not  be,"  at  last  she  murmured. 

"I  think  that  it  can  be,  and  very  easily  indeed,  without  the 
slightest  inconvenience  to  any  one,"  he  answered  quietly. 

Hope  was  lifted  above  her  veneration  by  her  admiration  and 
joy.  She  seemed  to  have  arisen  unconsciously,  and,  standing 
before  him,  she  exclaimed  :  "I  knew  that  something  beautiful 
would  come  to  Morna ;  but  I  did  not  know  that  God  would 
send  it  by  you.  Oh,  how  good  you  are,  Mr.  Rochelle !" 

"  Victoire  says  that  I  am  tiresomely  good.  That  is  an 
adjective  which  is  appropriated  exclusively  by  stupid  people  ; 
did  you  know  it,  Mademoiselle  ?"  he  answered,  smiling  on  her 
kindly. 

Henri  Rochelle  attached  no  merit  whatever  to  the  fact  of 
his  doing  his  duty.  The  noblest  acts  of  his  noble  life  to  him 
were  only  duty.  He  performed  them  cheerfully,  gladly ;  but 
sought  not,  did  not  even  wish  praise.  "  Why  should  a  man 
be  praised  for  doing  his  duty  ?" 

The  lamps  in  the  streets  were  lighted  now.  One  before  the 
house  filled  the  room  with  flickering  golden  light. 

"June!  My  prophecy  is  fulfilled.  Victoire,  you  are  the 
very  little  girl  whom  I  knew  in  France.  I  should  not  think 
that  you  had  ever  thought  of  being  sick ;  nothing  ever  made 
you  sick  but  unrest,"  said  Henri  Rochelle,  looking  at  me  now 
through  the  soft  radiance.  u  No  sooner  did  yon  acquiesce 
with  your  fate  and  enter  into  an  atmosphere  of  quiet,  than  all 
your  lost  bloom  stole  back  unawares.  I  gave  these  to  Beatrice 
once  ;  she  often  wore  them  for  my  sake.  Now  they  are  yours. 


A  Marriage  before  the  Last  Chapter.      243 

Will  you  wear  them  to-morrow  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  gentle  voice, 
as  he  rose  and  placed  in  my  hand  a  small,  gold-fretted  ivory 
casket.  Already  it  seemed  natural  to  say  "  Yes,"  when  he 
wished  it.  "  To-morrow  !"  he  said,  emphatically,  as  he  stood 
in  the  open  door,  after  having  uttered  his  adieu.  "  To 
morrow  !" 

"  To-morrow  !"  Yes,  it  came,  as  all  to-morrows  come,  the 
most  dreaded,  the  most  longed-for,  if  we  only  wait  long 
enough.  Living  orange  blossoms  came,  too,  another  gift 
from  him.  Morna  twined  them  around  my  head,  festooned 
them  around  the  flowing  folds  of  my  misty  robe.  I  wore  the 
casket's  treasures — a  necklace  and  bracelets  of  pearls — and 
stood  within  the  veil  which  fell  around  me,  an  enveloping  filmy 
cloud.  (This  is  all  in  parenthesis  for  my  lady  friends.) 

In  one  of  the  tree-shaded  streets  of  the  metropolis  there 
stands  a  chapel  which  shall  here  be  nameless.  It  is  filled  with 
a  reverential  grace,  sacred,  solemn  as  the  grand  Te  Deum ; 
sweetly  worshipful  as  its  own  Sicilian  vesper  hymn,  which 
through  its  vibrating  arches  quivers  up  to  the  heart  of  the 
all-loving  Father. 

The  afternoon  of  that  "  to-morrow"  was  touched  with  the 
almost  imperceptible  shadow  of  the  advancing  evening;  its 
golden  glow  was  just  beginning  to  fuse  itfcelf  into  the  blue 
ether,  when  a  single  carriage  paused  here,  and  a  very  small 
bridal  party  passed  into  this  chapel.  Before  its  altar  I  took 
the  vow  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  the  man  who  stood  by  my 
side.  This  had  seemed  impossible  once.  It  seemed  not  at  all 
impossible  now.  Because  I  felt  that  the  vow  was  as  solemn 
as  death,  I  as  sincerely  and  solemnly  vowed  to  keep  it.  It 
would  not  be  hard  to  do  so ;  I  thought  now  all  my  will  had 
submitted  to  its  master.  Thus  in  the  usual  commonplace 
way,  did  Victoire  Vernoid  merge  into  Madame  Rochelle. 
»  Of  the  latter  person  you  will  care  to  hear  no  more,  if  you 
are  one  of  that  large  number  of  persons  who  think  that  all 
the  charm  of  a  woman's  individual  life-  is  lost  the  moment 
she  is  married.  Then  of  course  this  story  is  not  for  you,  else 
fthe  wedding  would  have  been  deferred  to  the  last  chapter. 


244 


Victoire. 


A  NEW  LIFE  JUST  BEGUN. 


"  Mrs.  Rochelle,  Mrs.  Skinher." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  Mrs.  Ro — chette," 
said  my  former  hostess,  with  a  lingering,  questioning  emphasis 
on  my  new  name,  which  had  just  fallen  from  the  lips  of  Henri. 

To  some  ears  there  is  a  potent  dignity  in  the  word  "  Mrs." 
which  the  unprotected  "  Miss"  never  embodies.  To  the  worldly 
mind  "Mrs."  conveys  the  idea  of  an  establishment,  of  a  defined 
position,  of  possession  and  power ;  while  "  Miss"  is  only  a 

Sretty  appendage  to  papa,  a  waif  or  a  cipher  in  society, 
udi/ing  by  her  tone  and  manner  of  address,  Mrs.  Skinher 
considered  Mrs.  Rochelle  a  much  more  important  personage 
tli:m  Miss  Vernoid  had  ever  been.  "But  she  would  have 
thought  that  Miss  Vernoid  would  have  stayed  Miss  Vernoid  to 
the  end  of  her  days  for  all  of  ever  finding  such  a  husband. 
He  was  vastly  too  clever  for  such  a  ne'er-do-well  Miss,  who, 
without  doubt,  would  bring  him  to  poverty  unless  he  kept  a 
sharp  look-out,  which  she  guessed  he  would  do,  for  Mr.  Ro 
chelle  was  decidedly  to  her  taste.  Such  a  towering,  command 
ing  featured  man,  how  did  she  ever  get  him  ?" 

All  these  conclusions  and  questions  seemed  to  look  from 
Mrs.  Skinner's  keen,  business-eyes,  as  she  turned  them  with 
an  admiring  gaze  upon  Henri.  She  had  a  sympathetic  appre 
ciation  for  very  masculine  men.  Nature  had  perpetrated  a 
blunder  in  not  allowing  her  to  be  such  a  man  herself,  she 
thought.  She  had  ntjver  been  quite  resigned  to  the  mistake. 
She  was  sure  that  if  she  had  not  been  trammelled  by  the 
restrictions  of  her  miserable  sex,  she  would  have  been  worth 
millions  instead  of  thousands.  She  did  not  over-rate  her 
self  when  she  said:  "I  have  as  clear  a  judgment,  I  can 
see  as  far  into  business,  I  can  make  as  good  a  bargain  as  any* 
man  !" 

Mrs.  Skinher  had  reached  that  age  when  a  year,  or  two,  or 
three,  make  no  difference  in  looks.  She  did  not  seem  one 
minute  older  than  when  I  parted  with  her  one  year  before. 
Her  gorgeous  robe  de  matin  was  just  as  stylish  ;  the  roses  in 
her  moming  coiffure  just  as  conscious ;  her  autumn  cheek 
just  as  robu>t  and  ruddy ;  the  curls  which  fell  around  it  more 
glossy  ami  alnmdant.  I  knew  those  curls  ;  they  were  mine; 
and  I  frit  very  much  like  twitching  them  out  of  the  blonde 
lace  which  rested  above  them. 
The  desire  sharpened  my  voice  a  little,  perhaps,  when  I 


A  New  Life  Just  Begun.  245 

disturbed  the  admiring  gaze  which  she  was  bestowing  upon 
Mr.  Rochelle,  by  saying  :  "  Mrs.  Skinher,  we  have  come  after 
my  pictures."  My  pictures  !  Yes,  mine.  I  had  never  for  a 
moment  thought  of  them  as  the  property  of  another,  although 
more  than  a  year  had  gone  by  since  I  looked  at  them  last.  I 
was  so  eager  for  them,  I  wanted  to  see  them  so  much,  now 
that  they  were  so  near  my  sight,  there  must  have  been  a  quick 
vibration  of  impatience  in  my  voice  as  I  spoke,  but  there  was 
no  triumph.  There  had  been  an  anticipation  of  triumph, 
almost  as  sweet  as  the  triumph  itself,  which  filled  my  heart 
when  I  gazed  at  them  in  parting.  Then  the  thought  that  I 
should  go  forth  and  earn  money  to  redeem  them  quickened 
my  enfeebled  pulses  and  gave  new  vigor  to  my  wasted  limbs. 
I  had  even  been  foolish  enough  to  imagine  the  exquisite 
delight  of  the  real  triumph,  when  I  should  place  within  Mrs. 
Skinher's  rotund  palm  the  money  my  own  hands  had  earned, 
saying :  "  Mrs.  Skinher,  I  want  my  pictures."  A  delight  which 
would  be  enhanced  by  that  lady's  well-remembered  assurance : 
"  You  will  never  earn  money  to  redeem  them." 

I  had  not  earned  the  money  to  redeem  them.  Therefore  I  felt 
no  triumph ;  I  was  only  filled  with  a  great  impatience,  an  impetu 
ous  yeaniing  for  my  treasures.  Yet  I  felt  no  humiliation,  no 
shame.  Howcouldl?  The  money  in  my  hand  had  not  been  doled 
out  to  me  with  niggardly  reluctance  ;  it  had  not  been  offered 
me  with  the  condescending  munificence  which  would  have 
made  me  spurn  it.  It  had  stolen  into  my  purse  unawares,  as 
other  gifts  had  stolen  around  me,  as  if  they  belonged  to  me 
and  had. never  belonged  to  another.  But  when  Henri  said : 
"  Victoire,  you  must  go  for  your  pictures  ;  it  is  a  shame  that 
that  woman  has  had  them  so  long,"  my  heart  was  touched 
with  this  new  proof  of  his  delicate,  ever-thoughtful  kindness. 

Mrs.  Skinher  started  at  my  abrupt  assei'tion :  "  Mrs.  Skinher, 
I  must  have  my  pictures,  every  one.  Here  is  all  that  I  owe 
you." 

She  grew  very  red  ;  that  is,  the  claret  in  her  cheeks  saw  fit  to 
rush  out  to  the  tip  of  her  nose  and  up  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair. 

"  The  pictures  are  all  in  the  back-parlor — all  but  one  that 
I  sold.  You  see  that  this  parlor  has  been  newly  frescoed,  and 
the  design  of  the  mouldings  altered.  Your  large  painting  did 
not  harmonize  at  all  with  the  room  after  the  change;  the 
walls  were  too  gay  for  such  a  richly-colored  picture ;  so  I 
sold  it.  Of  course  I  knew  that  the  picture  would  never  be 
redeemed ;  that  is,  if  its  redemption  depended  upon  you  earn- 


246  Victoire. 

ing  the  money.  Besides,  how  did  I  know  but  that  vou  were 
dead  ?" 

"  I  think  that  the  picture  would  havelboen  redeemed,  even 
if  its  redemption  had  depended  upon  Mrs.  Rochelle,"  said 
Henri,  in  his  coolest,  calmest  tone.  "  Mrs.  Rochelle  is  capable 
of  earning  money  if  necessary.  Mrs.  Rochelle  had  money 
enough  saved  from  her  earnings  to  redeem  this  picture  at 
one  time,  and  it  was  swept  away  by  sickness.  All  are  liable 
to  misfortune,  you  should  remember,  Madame." 

What  a  new  thing  it  was  to  have  some  one  sitting  by, 
defending  me  in  my  weakest  points  in  that  quiet,  assured  tone 
which  would  admit  of  no  gainsaying  !  I  had  never  dreamed 
how  delightful  it  would  be  to  be  thus  defended,  how  very 
soothing  to  one's  jarred  self-love. 

"  I  do  not  pretend  to  say  what  Mrs.  Rochelle  is  '  capable' 
of  doing,"  said  Mrs.  Skinher,  in  her  keenest  metallic  tone ; 
"  I  only  know  what  she  did /  that  she  did  absolutely  nothing 
while  she  resided  here,  although  time  proved  that  there  was 
need  enough  of  her  doing,  for  she  left,  over  three  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  in  my  debt." 

"  Not  if  she  left  all  her  pictures  with  you.  I  know  some 
thing  of  the  value  of  paintings,  Madame.  The  pictures  which 
Mrs.  Rochelle  brought  to  America,  at  the  lowest  estimate, 
were  worth  two  thousand  dollars ;  and  they  did  not  include 
the  one  which  you  have  sold." 

The  claret  which  had  receded  from  the  end  of  Mrs.  Skin- 
her's  nose  now  rushed  back  with  accelerated  violence.  She 
evidently  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  Mr.  Rochelle's  knowledge 
of  the  value  of  paintings,  and  was  slightly  confused  in  spite  of 
herself. 

"  It  is  immaterial  how  valuable  they  were  to  you ;  they  were 
not  worth  two  hundred  dollars  to  me.  Give  me  the  money 
due  to  me  and  you  are  welcome  to  them,"  she  said. 

"  You  had  no  right  to  sell  my  picture,  Mrs.  Skinher,"  I  said 
in  a  voice  choking  with  tears.  I  was  absorbed  with  my  loss. 
After  such  waiting  and  longing ;  after  all,  I  had  lost  it,  my  idol 
picture. 

"  Right  ?"  said  this  estimable  lady  of  the  genteel  boarding- 
house.  "  Right !  Why  hadn't  I  a  right  ?  You  prove  your 
ignorance  of  business  and  of  law  to  make  such  an  assertion, 

Mi->s Mrs.  Rochelle.  I  entered  into  no  written  contract ; 

I  «1U  not  even  bind  myself  by  a  verbal  promise  to  keep  the 
pictures  for  any  given  time.  Yet  here  I  have  had  my  house 
cumbered  with  them  for  over  a  year,  and  have  sold  but  one 


A  New  Life  Just  Begun.  247 

and  that  a  great  big  thing  which  I  could  not  possibly  have  in 
the  way  any  longer.  You  can  bring  no  prosecution  against 
me  for  that  act,  I  am  certain.  Of  course  I  will  allow  for  it." 

"  No  allowance  can  atone  for  its  loss  to  me,  Mrs.  Skinher," 
I  replied,  utterly  unconsoled. 

"  I  would  rather  have  a  hundred  dollars  in  my  hand  than  a 
picture  in  my  way  any  time.  I  suppose  that  you  will  have 
nothing  to  do  now  but  to  paint  such  pictures  all  the  time.  If 
you  please  you  can  paint  it  over  again." 

"  I  can  never  paint  it  again,"  I  said,  sadder  still. 

"  That  is  no  concern  of  mine.  I  should  not  have  made  a 
contract  to  have  kept  it  as  security  beyond  a  year.  But  you 
proved  your  incapacity  by  not  even  asking  me  to  keep  the 
picture  a  certain  time.  In  poetry,  I  believe  (though  I  never 
read  it),  people  leave  things  to  be  taken  for  granted  ;  in 
business,  never.  Everything  there  must  be  in  black  and  white. 
You  may  be  thankful  that  I  have  not  sold  all  your  pictures, 
Miss — Mrs.  Rochelle." 

"  The  least  reparation  which  one  lady  can  make  to  another 
for  an  injury  which  cannot  be  repaired,  is  to  manifest  regret, 
however  slight.  1  do  not  wish  to  hear  such  harsh  tones  or 
language  addressed  to  my  wife,"  said  Henri,  with  all  the  sensi 
tive  dignity  of  the  newly-made  husband. 

I  turned  my  face  towards  him  in  spontaneous  gratitude. 
Mrs.  Skinher  had  made  me  feel  as  she  had  done  many  times 
before,  that  I  was  absolutely  inefficient  and  good  for  nothing. 
Oh,  how  pleasant  to  have  some  one  to  take  one's  part,  I 
thought. 

Mrs.  Skinher  looked  up  angrily,  yet  said  nothing.  She  saw 
that  Mr.  Rochelle  was  a  gentleman  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
Besides,  she  had  another  reason  for  keeping  quiet. 

"  I  received  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  painting ;  you  are 
welcome  to  it,  and  to  the  remaining  pictures  as  soon  as  you 
choose  to  call  for  them,"  she  said  with  marked  dignity,  count 
ing  the  above-named  sum  from  the  gold  which  I  had  laid  on 
the  marble  table  beside  her. 

"  Did  you  receive  only  one  hundred  dollars  for  it,  Madame  ?" 
asked  Henri. 

"  I  received  one  hundred  dollars  for  it,  sir,"  she  said,  look 
ing  into  the  distance. 

"I  think  that  you  received  more  for  it,  Mrs.  Skinher." 

"  Do  you  consider  it  gentlemanly  to  call  a  lady's  word  in 
question  ?  You  have  no  right  to  accuse  me  of  receiving  more. 
I  shall  not  condescend  to  deny  it,  as  you  doubted  me  in  the 


248  Victoire. 

beginning,"  she  said,  haughtily,  looking  towards  him  now.  His 
arched  eyebrow  was  drawn  down,  and  from  under  its  shadow 
the  penetrative  eye  of  the  man  well  acquainted  with  the  world 
looked  into  the  eye  of  the  woman  who  knew  it  equally 
well. 

"  If  you  wish  more  money  for  it,  fifty  dollars  is  no  object 
with  me,  though  it  may  be  with  yow,"  she  said,  endeavoring 
to  hide  her  annoyance  with  a  sneer,  and  hastily  thrusting 
another  little  pile  of  gold  towards  him  with  her  hand.  "I 
can  afford  to  give  much  more  than  I  received  for  it,"  she 
added,  with  great  emphasis  on  the  word  "  afford." 

"  I  shall  not  accept  the  fifty  dollars,  and  I  wish  no  further 
conversation.  I  only  wish  you  to  know  that  I  believe,  from 
the  very  look  on  your  face,  that  you  received  more  than  one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for  that  painting." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  be  insulted  in  my  own  house,"  said  Mrs. 
Skinher,  rising  with  an  air  of  state,  waving  her  "hand  regally 
towards  the  door.  But  the  gentleman  before  her  was  not  one 
to  be  at  all  perturbed  by  a  few  lofty  lady  airs,  even  though 
they  proceeded  from  so  august  a  personage  as  the  very  genteel 
mistress  of  a  very  genteel  boarding-house.  He  took  no  notice 
of  her  manner  whatever,  but  coolly  asked  : 

"  Do  you  object  to  giving  the  name  of  the  person  who 
bought  it  ?  If  possible,  I  wish  to  purchase  the  picture." 

"  The  name  I  have  forgotten  ;  the  gentleman  was  proprietor 
of  a  gallery  of  paintings.  I  doubt  if  he  would  sell  it ;  he 
wished  it  to  give  variety  to  his  collection,  he  said." 

"  Is  it  an  art-gallery  in  the  city  ?" 

"  It  may  be.     I — believe  that  it  is." 

"  Very  well,  I  can  find  it,  then." 

She  looked  more  thoroughly  annoyed  than  she  had  done  at 
all.  "  You  must  excuse  me ;  I  have  an  engagement,"  she 
said,  looking  at  her  gold  watch.  "  Be  so  kind  as1o  have  your 
pictures  removed  as  soon  as  possible." 

But  we  were  not  quite  ready  to  go. 

"  Does  Kate  live  with  you  still  ?"  I  inquired. 

«  She  does." 

"  Can  I  see  her,  Mrs.  Skinher  ?" 

"  She  is  busy  ;  the  house  is  fall."  » 

"  I  told  Kate  once  that  if  ever  I  had  a  home  I  should  be 
glad  to  have  her  share  it.  Now  I  have  come  to  ask  her  to  go 
to  it.  You  know  that  Kate  was  very  kind  to  me  once  ?" 

"  Kate  kind  to  you!  A  pretty  story.  She  only  obeyed  my 
orders,  yet  I  never  received  as  much  as  a  thank  you.  "l  don't 


A  New  Life  Just  Begun.  249 

know  but  that  you  think  it  good  manners  to  come  and  tell  a 
lady  to  her  face  that  you  intend  to  persuade  her  servant  to 
leave  her,  but  I  consider  it  very  ill-bred — the  height  of  ill- 
breeding." 

"  I  certainly  should  not  do  so  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
Mrs.  Skinher.  I  am  sorry  to  do  so  now,  if  you  are  so  much 
attached  to  Kate  ;  yet  I,  too,  am  attached  to  her,  and  feel  that 
I  must  give  her  an  opportunity  to  make  a  choice,"  I  said. 

"  Attached  to  her !"  said  Mrs.  Skinher,  in  great  disgust. 
"  As  if  it  were  possible  for  a  lady  to  have  any  personal 
attachment  to  an  Irish  servant.  No ;  Kate  is  lazy,  saucy, 
and  troublesome.  Yet  she  is  just  as  good  as  any  of  her  class, 
and  I  don't  wish  the  bother  of  making  a  change  ;  though  I 
dare  say  if  I  had  time  I  should  find  some  one  who  would  do 
more  work  and  give  me  less  impudence." 

"  I  will  engage  to  find  you  a  good  servant  to  take  her  place 
if  she  leaves  you ;  but  I  feel  that  I  must  see  her." 

"  You  find  me  a  servant !  I  assure  you  that  I  am  quite 
equal  to  attending  to  my  own  affairs.  I  would  trust  no  one 
to  select  a  servant  for  me.  I  know  the  very  minute  I  look 
into  a  girl's  face  if  she  is  a  thief,  and  just  what  she  is.  A 
dreamy,  sentimental  person  like  you  would  never  know.  It 
requires  common  sense  to  select  a  servant.  If  you  wish  to 
see  Kate,  you  can  go  through  the  rooms  until  you  find  her. 
But  I  doubt  if  the  ladies  will  think  it  agreeable  to  have  a 
stranger  intruding  into  their  apartments." 

Of  course  to  see  Kate  under  such  circumstances  was  out  of 
the  question.  We  must  devise  some  other  way  to  reach  her. 
With  a  good  morning,  and  with  an  assurance  from  Henri 
that  the  pictures  should  be  sent  for  before  evening,  we  arose 
to  depart. 

Kate  was  one  of  those  acute-eared  chamber-maids  who 
seldom  fail  to  hear  the  ringing  of  the  door  bell,  neither  was 
she  without  a  proper  degree  of  feminine  curiosity  concerning 
the  human  beings  whom  black-faced,  white-vested  Nick  ushered 
in  and  out.  For  example,  if  she  happened  to  be  at  the  head 
of  the  staircase  at  the  right  moment,  she  would  poise  herself 
against  her  broom-handle,  and  look  down,  "  jist  to  see  if  the 
lady's  driss  was  ilegant,  or  the  gintleman's  moosetush  was  fit 
to  be  sane."  Kate  was  also  one  of  those  opportune  chamber 
maids  who  knew  how  to  happen  on  the  stairs  at  the  exact 
minute  when  some  one  was  issuing  from  the  parlor,  provided 
in  their  entree  they  had  aroused  sufficient  interest  to  induce  her 
to  take  cognizance  of  their  departure.  On  this  morning  she 

11* 


Victoire. 

had  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  Henri  as  we  disappeared  into 
the  parlor  ;  and  as  she  was  "  sure  that  she  had  seen  this  gintle- 
man  before,"  she  waited  his  second  appearance,  that  she  might 
compose  her  mind  by  assuring  it  "  when  and  where." 

Slowly  descending  the  broad  stairs,  bearing  in  conscious 
state  the  badges  of  her  office— broom,  duster,  and  dust-pan — 
came  Kate,  just  as  we  passed  into  the  hall.  Suddenly  broom, 
duster,  and  dust-pan  fell  with  a  great  clatter,  hitting  the 
enamelled  balusters,  and  dropping  with  a  sharp  reverberation 
upon  the  floor  of  the  basement  far  below. 

"  Kate,  you  are  the  torment  of  my  life.  Yon  shall  pay  for 
breaking  that  new  enamel,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Skinher,  rushing 
away  to  ascertain  the  precise  amount  of  damages  done.  But 
Kate  did  not  hear  her  in  her  rapid  descent  and  eager  call. 

"  Oh,  me  darlint  young  leddy,  is  it  ye  !  The  very  young 
leddy  who  I  nursit  wid  me  own  hands,  lookin'  like  a  princess. 
Sure,  an'  I  al'us  said  ye  was  born  to  good  fortin',  though  ye'r 
own  nus  said  ye  was  horned  crazy." 

By  this  time  Kate  had  reached  us ;  and  although  she 
looked  slightly  abashed  at  my  companion,  her  embarrassment 
was  not  sufficient  to  arrest  the  motion  of  her  tongue  for  a 
longer  space  than  to  take  a  single  breath  ;  then  she  went  on, 
looking  straight  at  me  with  the  most  devouring  delight : 

"  Sure,  an'  the  gran'  gintleman's  foun'  ye.  I  know'd  he 
wud,  though  'twas  more  nor  I  cud  do.  Faith,  upon  me  wurd, 
it  is  the  truth.  I've  bin  huntin'  an'  huntin',  and  'twas  all  no 
use.  Didn't  I  go  mesel'  to  the  graveyard  across  the  river, 
fearin'  they  had  .hurried  ye  beside  o'  y'er  owld  nus.  Pace  to 
her  sowl.  But  no  ;  it  wasn't  ther'  that  ye  wus.  Thin  I  was 
in  thruble,  not  knowin'  what  hard  fortin'  had  befallen  ye. 
Long  enuf  afore  I  wint  to  the  hathenish  place  wher'  ye  got 
board,  an'  they  sed  ye'd  gone,  they  know'd  notbin'  wher'. 
Thin  I  spake  me  mind,  I  did.  I  tould  thim  to  thar'  face, 
'twas  a  burnin'  shame  that  my  young  missus,  the  lady  what 
I  nursit  wid  me  own  hands,  had  iver  lived  in  such  a  din  of 
S;it:m.  Thin,  that  big,  big  red-headed  thing  said  it  was  good 
emit',  an'  too  good,  an'  I  felt  like  pullin'  all  the  blazin'  hairs 
out  by  the  ruts,  bad  luck  to  the  like  of  her !  Faith,  I  am 
afeared  me  bad  temper  wud  make  me  struck  her,  if  I  hadn't 
thought  of  ye.  Dade,  it's  a  great  shame  that  the  like  of  ye 
iver  had  to  sit  afore  the  face  of  that  freckled-faced  spalpeen, 
That  gloomy  hole  of  a  house  was  enuf  to  make  your  heart  as 
black  as  a  pot !  " 

44  Well,  Kate,  I  am  going  to  have  a  pleasant  home  now. 


A  New  Life  Just  Begun.  .  251 

And  you  know  that  I  promised  you  once  that  if  I  ever  had 
one,  I  should  ask  you  to  come  and  live  with  me.  Do  you 
want  to  go?" 

"  Why  wudn't  I  ?  It's  afthur  bein'  time  that  ye  had  a 
dacent  ruf  to  kiver  ye'r  young  head.  An'  if  you've  got  a 
gran'  house  at  last,  I'm  the  gel  that  wud  like  to  see  it.  I 
know'd  good  enuf  ye  wus  borned  to  good  fortin',  but  it  was 
the  feelin'  I  had  that  some  other  sowl  wud  bring  ye  the  luck. 
Well  enuf  I  know'd  that  no  sich  hands  as  yourn  could  iver 
dig  money  enuf  to  buy  a  big  house,  if  they  do  say  that  it 
sprouts  in  the  streets  of  Amereky  thick  as  the  potaties  blos 
som  in  the  fields  at  home.  Wan't  me  own  faythur  a  well- 
to-do  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  father  must  have  been  a  good  man  ,•  but  I 
'  haven't  told  you  yet  that  this  gentleman  is  my  husband.  He 
will  be  very  good  to  you,  Kate." 

"  Yer  honor !"  said  Kate,  dropping  a  low  courtesy,  "  an' 
will  ye  be  good  enuff  to  pardon  me  gibgabblin'.  Joy  at 
seein'  the  young  missus  hus  set  me  tongue  a-runin',  and  there 
be'n't  no  stoppin'  it.  Upon  me  wurred,  sir,  it  is  the  truth  ;  I 
am  very,  very  fond~of  the  young  leddy." 

"  I  see  that  you  are,"  said  Henri,  smiling. 

"  An'  if  yer  honor  will  let  the  like  of  me  say  it,  I  must  say 
to  ye'r  honor,  I  know'd  the  minut'  I  set  my  eyes  on  ye'r 
honor,  when  ye  kem  afore,  askin'  so  throbbled-like  for  the 
young  leddy  what  I  nursit  wid  my  own  hands,  that  ye  it  wud 

be  what  wud  bring  luck  to  Miss ,  faith  ;  an'  I  can't  say 

yit  yer  outlandish  name.  I  hope  now,  Miss,  ye's  got  a  name 
that  mesel'  can  spake  ?" 

"  My  name  is  Rochelle." 

"  Ro-Ro-Ro-shall.  Faith,  it's  no  better  nor  tother !  A 
great  misfortin'  is  it,  Miss,  ye's  got  sich  outlandish  names  ; 
no  common  folks  can  spake  'em.  How  is  ye'r  servants  to 
trate  ye  wid  respect  when  they  can't  say  ye'r  name,  to  save 
their  sowls.  ?  I'm  glad  me  name  is  Murphy ;  that's  a  name  what 
folks  can  spake." 

"  Kate,  you've  lost  just  two  weeks'  wages.  Go  and  look 
at  that  broken  cornice.  Another  time,  perhaps  you'll  hold 
your  dust-pan  in  your  hand,  where  it  belongs,  and  not  send  it 
flying  down  two  flights  of  stairs,"  said  Mrs.  Skinher,  as  she 
returned  from  her  explorations. 

"  As  ef  I  cared  if  'twus  two  months'  wages.  I'd  drop  the 
dust-pan  out  of  me  hand  the  very  nixt  minnit,  if  I  seed  me 
young  missus  a-comin',  what  I  thought  was  dead  an'  burrid, 


Victoire. 


an'  gone  to  heaven.  Here  she  is  alive  an'  well,  an'  lookin' 
like  a  princiss,  thanks  be  to  God  !  An'  aint  mesel'  agoin'  to 
live  with  thira  what  I  likes,  an'  thim  what  likes  me  ?  As  if 
I  cared  for  your  two  weeks'  wages  !" 

"  Give  me  no  impudence,  Kate.  If  you  are  going  to  live 
with  this  woman,  go  out  of  my  house  this  moment.  But 
remember  you  have  lost  two  weeks'  wages." 

Kate  took  no  notice  of  this  command  to  leave,  for  she  was 
only  waiting  to  exclaim :  "  Indade,  upon  me  word,  Miss,  it  is 
the  truth,  an'  the  whole  truth,  joy  at  seein'  ye,  made  me  for 
get  to  tell  it  afore,  but  I'se  got  a  packet  for  ye  ;  I  has,  with 
a  furrin  mark  on  it.  I  tuk  it  to  that  gloomy  hole  of  a  house 
that  was  niver  fit  for  the  like  of  ye,  an'  as  it  wasn't  there  that 
ye  was,  what  in  the  world  was  I  to  do  wid  it,  but  to  keep  it 
till  I  know'd  for  shure  if  ye  was  alive  or  dead,  or  gone  to 
heaven  ?" 

"  It  must  be  from  Orsini,"  I  said.  "  Bring  it  to  me,  Kate, 
as  quick  as  you  can." 

Kate  went  immediately  after  it,  and  Mrs.  Skinher  embraced 
the  brief  moments  of  her  absence  to  express  her  final  opinion 
of  my  character. 

"  I  feel  it  to  be  my  duty,"  she  began,  "  to  tell  you  just 
what  I  think  of  you.  You  are  a  person  who  would  never 
know  your  faults  if  you  were  not  told  of  them.  Never !  It 
is  my  duty  to  tell  you,  and  I  will  do  my  duty."  (Oh !  how 
some  people  love  to  do  their  duty  in  certain  states  of  temper.) 
"  Miss — Madame  Rochelle,  you  are  a  very  troublesome  person. 
Five  hundred  dollars  would  not  pay  for  the  trouble  which  you 
have  made  me.  I  always  had  my  suspicions  that  you  were  the 
cause  of  Signor  Orsino  going  off  as  he  did.  Yes ;  I  had  my 
suspicions,  and  I  expressed  them  at  the  table,  that  Signor 
Orsino  would  never  have  gone  to  Italy  if  it  had  not  been  for 
you.  A  better  boarder  I  never  had.  He  was  good  pay, 
excellent  pay  ;  he  always  paid  his  bills  the  first  day  they  were 
due.  And  you  was  the  cause  of  my  losing  him — as  good  a 
boarder  as  I  ever  had.  You  caused  the  death  of  my  cook — 
the  best  cook  I  ever  had.  She  would  not  have  died  if  you 
had  not  taken  it  into  your  head  to  have  gone  crazy.  And 
now,  as  if  you  had  not  done  mischief  enough,  you  have  come 
to  coax  away  my  chamber-maid — the  best  chamber-girl  I  ever 
had.  She  has  got  a  saucy  tongue,  but  she  wouldn't  have  so 
inm-h  time  to  use  it  if  she  was  not  so  spry  when  she  does 
work ;  though  she  is  a  lazy  thing.  Now  you  have  come  after 
her.  You  are  a  very  selfish  person.  It  is  my  duty  to  tell 


A  New  Life  Just  Begun.  253 

you  so.  Five  hundred  dollars  wouldn't  pay  for  the  trouble 
which  you  have  made." 

"  I  allus  said  ye  know'd  that  I  did  the  work  of  two 
common  gels,"  said  Kate,  triumphantly.  She  had  heard  Mrs. 
Skinner's  estimate  of  her  spryness  while  descending  the  stairs 
— bonnet,  shawl,  and  package  in  hand. 

I  had  no  fault  to  find  with  Mrs.  Skinher's  picture,  being  too 
much  engaged  in  the  thought  of  the  advancing  package.  Henri 
evidently  deemed  the  tirade  beneath  his  notice  ;  therefore 
the  charming  woman  who  delivered  it,  having  "  done  her 
duty,"  walked  away  with  becoming  dignity. 

I  have  not  spoken  to  you  of  Orsino  this  long  time,  but 
I  had  not  forgotten  him.  His  amulet  had  hung  upon  my 
neck  and  fluttered  on  my  heart  through  all  my  changing 
fortunes.  There  was  an  hour,  when  want  and  death  drew 
near,  in  which  I  feared  that  I  must  part  with  it.  Then  I 
watched  for  an  opportunity  to  slip  it  into  George  Peacock's 
hand  and  to  whisper  :  "  Go  buy  fire  and  bread,  lest  my  dar 
lings  perish."  I  had  been  spared  the  sacrifice.  Often  I  had 
looked  at  the  little  cross  with  its  crown  of  pearls,  and  yearned 
for  tidings  of  my  friend.  Had  his  prayer  been  granted,  had 
he  died  for  Italy,  and  thus  been  spared  the  woe  of  living  to 
see  her  still  in  chains  ? 

I  knew  not,  for  although  I  had  sent  him  my  address  at  the 
"  comfortable  home,"  I  had  received  no  tidings  since  his  first 
letter.'  I  was  never  one  of  those  sublimely  indifferent  persons 
who  can  carry  an  unopened  letter  ip  their  pocket  for  any 
number  of  hours,  or  let  it  lie  before  their  eyes  with  the  seal 
untouched,  as  if  it  was  all  the  same  whether  they  read  it 
to-day  or  next  week.  If  a  letter  is  disagreeable,  I  wish  the 
felicity  of  seeing  it  burn  to  dust  in  less  than  five  minutes ;  if 
it  is  one  of  those  which  few  can  write,  but  which  many  love 
to  receive,  I  cannot  too  quickly  fold  it  with  my  heart's  trea 
sures.  I  did  not  wait  to  pass  out  from  the  slightly  ungenial 
atmosphere  of  Mrs.  Skinher's  hall  to  open  the  package  which 
Kate  placed  in  my  hands.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  not 
Orsino's  handwriting  which  traced  the  cover.  I  opened  it, 
and,  ere  I  was  aware,  from  its  folds  of  silken  paper  a  tress 
of  hair  floated  noiselessly  to  my  feet,  and  with  it  a  chain  of 
gold  fell  with  a  quick  vibration  outside  the  velvet  carpet  on 
the  hard  enamel  of  the  stairs.  It  was  Orsino's  amulet.  I 
stooped  and  picked  it  up ;  its  sword,  its  laurel-wreath  were 
broken.  I  found  in  the  package  the  leaves  of  Orsino5^  jour 
nal  closed  by  a  strange  hand,  which  recorded  that  Angelo 


254 


Victoire. 


Orsino,  his  beloved  friend,  died  pouring  out  his  blood  for 
the  liberty  of  Rome ;  that  he  obeyed  his  dying  wish  in  send 
ing  this  memorial  to  the  Signora  in  a  distant  land  1  Here,  at 
the  foot  of  the  staircase  on  which  we  had  exchanged  our  first 
glances  of  pleasant  recognition,  where  his  beautiful  smile  had 
first  hung  its  light  in  my  lonely  life,  I  read  the  record  of  his 
death. 

I  read  no  more.  These  last  leaves  of  his  life  must  be  perus 
ed  in  more  sacred  hours,  I  said,  as  I  laid  in  their  folds  again 
the  broken  amulet  and  tress  of  faded  hair.  Henri,  in  a  quiet 
tone,  was  giving  directions  to  Kate  about  a  certain  train  of 
cars — about  the  station  where  a  carriage  would  wait  her 
arrival.  I  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  and  did  not  ask.  I 
only  knew  that  Kate  was  to  come  to  us  that  morning,  and 
with  this  satisfactory  knowledge  we  departed — the  loss  of 
my  picture  forgotten  in  the  loss  of  my  friend. 

The  three  weeks  which  had  passed  since  our  marriage  we 
had  spent  in  a  Southern  city.  Morna  and  Hope  had  accom 
panied  us,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  catching  a  glimpse 
of  the  grand  country  lying  outside  of  their  native  metropolis. 
We  had  returned  to  New  York  the  evening  before,  when 
Henri  said  :  "  To-morrow  we  will  go  to  our  home."  In  what 
portion  of  the  city  that  home  was  to  be  I  had  not  even 
inquired.  I  did  not  seem  to  care  much,  now  that  Morna 
had  certainly  assured  me  that  she  could  not  share  it  with  me. 

"  Victoire,  it  is  not  best,"  she  said,  with  deep  emphasis  ;  and 
when  Morna  said  anything  was  not  best,  I  always  believed 
that  it  was  not. 

"  You  must  remember,"  she  said,  "  that  ease  and  luxury  are 
not  portions  of  my  natural  heritage.  I  do  not  want  them,  at 
least  until  I  have  earned  the  right  to  enjoy  them.  Long 
privation  has  created  in  me  so  keen  a  taste  for  forbidden  joy 
that  I  fear,  if  I  should  come  into  sudden  possession  of  it,  I 
should  become  intoxicated.  Leisure,  beauty,  music,  would 
enervate  me.  I  should  yield  to  them  unconsciously  until  lost 
in  a  delicious  delirium.  Yet  I  should  some  day  wake  to  the 
consciousness  that  I  had  no  right  to  this  gorgeous  life,  no 
right  to  this  unchecked  leisure,  to  this  yielding  up  of  the  soul' 
to  all  that  it  thirsts  for  most,  because  it  would  not  be  mine 
but  the  property  of  another.  Yet  that  knowledge  would  not 
bring  back  the  patience  and  power  to  perform  my  old  hated 
tasks.  No,  Victoire,  I  must  content  myself  with  what  I  can 
i';irn.  What  I  toil  for  is  mine,  but  nothing  more.  Besides,  it 
is  not  best." 


A  New  Life  Just  Begun.  255 

She  spoke  as  if  her  mind  was  conscious  of  a  distinct  reason 
why  it  was  not  best. 

"  I  know,"  she  went  on  to  say,  "  that  I  should  not  be 
justified  in  utterly  refusing  Mr.  Rochelle's  kindness,  much  as 
it  pains  me  to  accept  it.  He  says  that  if  I  will  'devote  myself 
to  music  this  summer,  by  autumn  I  can  secure  a  situation  in 
a  church  or  cathedral  choir.  Besides,  perhaps,  I  might  then 
obtain  a  music  class ;  and  by  another  spring  1  should  be 
able  to  pay  all  that  he  will  loan  me  in  order  to  secure  my 
teacher.  In  the  meantime  I  can  sew  enough  to  pay  for 
my  board  during  the  summer.  I  am  so  anxious  for  Hope's 
future,  for  her  sake  I  waive  all  feelings  of  pride.  It  seems 
as  if  I  had  never  wanted  anything  in  the  world  so  much  as 
to  have  that  child  educated.  If  culture  can  be  added  to  her 
natural  graces  I  feel  assured  that  her  lot  in  life  will  be  a  beau 
tiful  one.  For  this  reason,  Mr.  Rochelle's  offer  to  adopt  and 
educate  her  seems  like  a  proposition  from  Heaven.  I  dare  not 
utterly  refuse  it.  At  least  we  will  share  her  together,  Victoire. 
And  my  joy,  my  holiday  delight,  will  be  to  come  and  see  you 
sometimes  in  your  home.  What  a  bliss  it  will  be !  Victoire, 
you  ought  to  be  happy,  very  happy  ;  saved  and  sheltered  as 
you  are  in  the  love  of  such  a  man — so  noble,  so  manly,  so 
strong.  These  are  the  qualities  in  man  which  arouse  the  high 
est  worship  of  a  woman." 

I  had  heard  my  friend  praised  many  times  ;  never  before, 
my  husband.  I  recognised  a  difference.  With  a  real  thrill 
of  womanly  feeling  I  said :  "  Morna,  he  is  splendid." 

Thus  it  was  concluded,  and  after  her  certain  assurance,  I 
knew  that  a  whole  torrent  of  feminine  entreaties  of:  "  Oh,  do, 
Morna  ;"  and  "  I  should  think  you  might,  Morna  ;"  and  "  How 
cruel  you  are,  Morna,"  could  not  wash  away  that  little  sen 
tence  :  "  Victoire,  it  is  not  best." 

Nick  had  opened  the  door  for  us,  and  I  had  passed  down 
the  marble  steps  of  Mrs.  Skinher's  mansion  for  the  last  time, 
not  much  as  I  tottered  down  them  one  year  before,  carrying 
nothing  with  me  out  into  the  world  but  my  sick  body,  my 
sad  heart,  and  my  "  dead  Christ."  As  we  entered  the  car 
riage  Henri  said  : 

"  We  will  devote  to-morrow  to  a  search  for  that  lost  paint 
ing.  The  art-galleries  of  New  York  are  not  so  numerous  nor 
so  extensive  but  that  it  can  be  found,  if  in  any  of  them  ;  but 
now  we  will  go  home." 

I  expected  that  the  carriage  would  stop  before  one  of 
the  innumerable  bouses  "all  alike  in  a  row."  But  no,  it 


256 


Victoire. 


rolled  by  all,  till  at  last  the  city  itself  was  passed.  Then  I 
said : 

"Why,  we  are  on  the  road  which  we  took  when  we  went 
to  Bel  Eden." 

"  We  are  going  to  Bel  Eden,  now,"  said  Henri. 

"  What,  for  a  drive  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  for  a  rest  at  the  end  of  it.  Bel  Eden  is  our 
home,  Victoire." 

"  Our  home !  I  thought  that  you  said  it  was  the  property 
of  a  Southern  gentleman." 

"  So  it  was  at  that  time.  But  I  said  nothing  of  what  was 
equally  true,  that  it  was  then  in  the  hands  of  his  agent  for 
sale.  I  wanted  to  be  sure  that  you  would  like  it  for  a  home 
before  I  purchased  it." 

I  was  quite  unprepared  for  this  last  gift  of  fortune. 

"  Why  are  you  so  quiet  ?"  asked  Henri. 

"  Everything  seems  so  strange.  I  can't  make  it  seem  that 
we  are  going  to  live  at  Bel  Eden.  I  don't  like  to  have  my 
life  seem  so  like  a  story.  I  am  afraid  that  it  will  slip  away 
from  me  before  I  know  it." 

"  I  should  think  that  you  had  had  reality  enough  to  make  the 
story -part  pleasant  by  way  of  variety.  But  will  this  make  it 
seem  any  more  like  a  fact  ?  Here  is  a  deed  of  Bel  Eden 
made  out  in  your  name — my  bridal  gift  to  my  wife." 

"  Why  did  you  choose  one  so  magnificent  ?  You  know 
that  it  is  not  at  all  in  keeping  with  me.  I  never  dreamed 
that  you  were  such  a  Midas." 

"  I  am  no  Midas.  I  have  no  ambition  to  change  your  life 
into  gold.  But  perhaps  you  remember  that  I  told  you  on 
this  very  road  that  I  should  give  my  wife  substantial  proof 
that  I  loved  her  above  all  women.  This  is  my  first  proof  to 
you,  Victoire.  Besides,  Bel  Eden  is  a  capital  investment. 
It  is  excellent  property." 

"  Is  it  ?" 

**  Yes ;  I  made  up  my  mind  fcom  the  first  moment  I  saw  it 
to  buy  it  if  possible.  How  full  of  wonder  you  look,  child.  I 
know  you  have  thought  that  my  profession  was  my  only  de 
pendence.  This  has  made  you  magnify  the  generosity  of  my 
deeds  a  hundredfold.  The  truth  is,  I  am  rich.  I  inherited 
all  of  my  mother's  fortune,  which  has  been  accumulating  since 
my  infancy,  when  she  died.  Beatrice's  portion  came  to  me. 
autumn  my  father  died  and  left  me  the  money  which 
he  had  hoarded  through  a  long  life,  my  step-mother  having 
enough  of  her  o\vu.  Now  if  I  have  tried  to  diffuse  a  little  of 


A  New  Life  Just  Begun.  257 

the  treasure  which  I  had  no  use  for  into  three  other  lives 
which  needed  light  and  warmth  very  much,  it  is  no  proof  at 
all  that  I  am  a  very  munificent  fellow.  If  I  could  have  done 
a  great  deal  more,  it  would  have  been  only  my  duty.  You 
must  wait  until  people  deny  themselves  to  do  a  kind  deed, 
before  you  talk  of  generosity,  Victoire.  You  have  an  exam 
ple  in  Morna.  She  is  as  unselfish  as  she  is  gifted." 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  that  you  like  Morna,"  I  said,  my  heart 
yearning  towards  my  friend  with  that  great  love  which  she 
had  created  in  me. 

The  road  to  Bel  Eden  did  not  seem  nearly  as  long  as  when 
we  rode  over  it  before.  With  eager  eyes  I  watched  for  the 
first  glimpse  of  my  home,  wondering  if  it  could  seem  as  beau 
tiful  as  when  I  looked  at  it  with  the  eyes  of  a  stranger. 
Before  we  entered 'the  arcade  of  roadside  elms  I  caught  a 
gleam  of  the  glowing  windows  of  its  tower,  overlooking  the 
high  sunny  slope  on  which  it  stood,  and,  as  we  drew  nearer, 
saw  its  pale  walls  showing  softly  through  the  openings  of 
the  trees. 

The  gate  was  opened  by  the  same  old  man  who  admitted  us 
before,  and  there  was  a  world  of  welcome  in  his  pleasant  face. 
The  trees  now  wore  the  wondrous  garniture  of  June.  Dense, 
gorgeous,  richly  veined,  filled  with  the  fulness  of  life,  they 
waved  over  us  their  pendulous  panoplies.  Bel  Eden  had  put 
on  a  warmer  bloom,  a  deeper,  riper  loveliness  since  we  saw  it 
last.  As  we  emerged  into  its  free  space,  all  the  air  was 
flushed  with  roses,  distilling  attar  from  their  white  and  crim 
son  hearts,  till  the  world  seemed  rife  with  their  wandering 
odors.  There,  leaning  against  the  vine-hung  arches  of  the 
portico  beneath  the  tower  in  their  white  flowing  robes,  stood 
Morna  and  Hope — Hope,  the  promise  of  her  budding  beauty 
enfolding  her  like  a  mystic  glory  ;  Morna,  with  all  the  tense 
lines  of  pain  fading  away  from  her  gentle  mouth,  the  dark 
braids  of  her  hair  shining  against  the  ivy  leaves  on  which 
they  rested,  her  large,  lustrous  eyes  sending  out  the  radiance 
of  a  larger  love,  dewy,  tender  as  the  beautiful  orbs  in  which 
it  shone.  They  were  there  to  welcome  me  to  my  new 
home. 

Amid  this  unexpected  yet  joyful  greeting,  I  was  made 
aware  of  still  another  presence  by  a  very  queer  sound  bearing 
some  resemblance  both  to  a  chuckle  and  a  grunt.  Looking, 
I  saw  a  ponderous  object  dressed  in  white  jacket  and  trowsers, 
rolling  over,  and  over,  and  over  in  the  sunny  grass,  and  I  had 
only  to  look  to  discover  that  it  was  George  Washington  Pea- 


258  Victoire. 

cock.  At  the  question,  "  How  are  you,  George  ?"  he  turned 
a  somerset  which  brought  him  blank  before  me. 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  oh  dear !  Miss  Victory,  I  can't  say 
nothin'  about  nothin',"  and  with  these  words  again  he  plunged 
into  the  grass  with  as  much  vehemence  as  I  had  once  seen 
him  plunge  into  a  lounge-cushion,  beginning  to  roll  with 
great  violence,  as  if  it  was  the  only  possible  way  by  which  he 
could  give  adequate  expression  to  his  superfluous  emotion. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  George  Washington.  Wh;it 
do  you  want  to  say  ?"  I  asked,  laughing,  as  I  saw  the  white 
mass  rolling  down  the  slope  of  bright  turf.  In  a  moment  more 
he  brought  himself  up  again  before  me. 

"  Oh,  dear,  Miss  Victory,  I'll  be — i— I  aint  never  goin'  to 
swear  no  more.  But  I  feel  as  if  I  was  a  bustin',  an'  I  must 
shout  glory  or  I  shall  swear  when  I  don't  want  to,  for  I  must 
say  somethin'.  What  is  a  feller  gwiiie  to  do  when  he  feels 
hisself  a  bustin'  ?" 

"  Sing,  George  Washington." 

"  I  can't  sing ;  'taint  no  use  tryin'.  But  I  can  yell  an'  I  can 
tumble.  An'  1  never  had  no  such  place  as  this  to  tumble  in 
afore,"  he  said,  plunging  again  into  the  turf,  and  rolling  down 
the  sunny  slope,  bringing  himself  up  the  third  time  to  exclaim  : 
"  Well,  I  never  read  nothin'  like  it  in  no  story-book.  I 
didn't  'spose  there  ever  was  nothin'  like  it,  as  you  should  come 
an'  live  with  Mr.  Rochel'  in  a  handsum  meetin'  house,  with 
the  steeple  a  shinin'  at  the  top  like  blazes.  I  didn't  spose  as  I 
should  ever  see  Miss  Hope  a  standin'  in  the  door,  lookin'  like 
:iii  :mgel  in  a  white  frock.  There  never  was  nothin'  like  it  in 
all  the  story-books  as  I  ever  read,  in  the  Pirate  of  the  Pacific 
nor  nothin' ;  as  I  should  come  an'  live  with  you  an'  Mr.  Ro 
chel'  an'  b^  made  a  decent  chap  of.  Oh,  I  never  thought 

notliin'  so  good  could  come  to  me,  I'll  be Oh,  ^  didn't  say 

it.  I  can't  say  nothin'  about  nothin'.  I  am  a  bustin' !"  And 
again  the  half-frantic  boy  rolled  off  in  the  grass,  Henri  calling 
out: 

"  Roll  away,  my  boy,  until  you  feel  easier." 

The  next  morning  the  search  for  the  lost  painting  com 
menced.  The  art  gallery  in  which  it  had  been  placed  was 
easily  found;  but,  alas!  it  was  not  there.  The  director,  the 
gi-ntli'mati  who  purchased  it  of  Mrs.  Skinher,  informed  us 
th:it  he  had  sold  it  more  than  a  month  before  for  a  thousand 
dollars  ;  als  >  that  he  bought  it  of  Mrs.  Skinher  for  five  hundred. 
He  said  thit  the  picture  had  attracted  much  attention  on 
account  of  its  marked  individuality  ;  that  it  had  been  sharply 


Life.  259 

criticised  and  enthusiastically  praised ;  that  only  one  verdict 
had  been  pronounced  upon  the  living  inspiration  of  the  faces 
in  the  group,  which  all  critics  acknowledged  remarkable  for 
power  and  beauty.  Its  present  proprietor  purchased  it  for  his 
own  house ;  whether  he  intended  to  reside  in  this  city  or  not 
the  director  did  not  know.  The  painting  was  sent  to  the 

Hotel  St. .     The  gentleman's  name  was  Moucrieffe. 

Amid  the  many  unsatisfactory  items  which  we  gathered  we 
found  the  very  satisfactory  one,  that,  in  the  amount  paid  Mrs. 
Skinher  for  this  picture,  she  had  received  an  equivalent  for  the 
five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  trouble  which  I  had  unfortu 
nately  made  her  in  causing  the  death  of  her  cook  and  the  loss 
of  her  chamber-maid. 


LIFE. 

Life  had  come  to  me.  I  had  accepted  it  not  as  the  reali 
zation  of  the  ideal  life  which  I  had  dreamed  of,  but  still 
as  a  life  rich  beyond  my  deserving.  Whose  actual  life  is 
ever  just  the  thing  which  once  they  imagined  that  it  might 
be  ?  Even  if  its  colors  are  gorgeous  as  those  which  fancy 
painted,  still  they  are  different.  The  life  of  fact  is  never  the 
fulfilment  of  the  life  of  dreams.  Life  had  come  and  lavished 
upon  me  treasures  which  I  had  never  sought ;  should  I  murmur 
because  it  retained  a  single  gift,  even  though  that  was  the  one 
which  I  most  fervently  desired  ?  Life  could  not  be  all  love 
nor  all  happiness.  Labor,  and  discipline,  and  growth  were  a 
part  of  life.  There  were  victories  to  be  won  over  ourselves ; 
there  was  good  to  be  done  and  to  be  attained.  There  was  a 
lite  which  transcended  all  personal  desire  ;  which  included  an 
abnegation  of  self  and  devotion  to  the  happiness  of  others. 
I  would  live  this  life.  It  was  very  selfish  to  be  so  eager  for 
happiness,  to  spend  one's  days  longing  for  that  grand  ideal  of 
personal  satisfaction  which  we  may  find  in  heaven  but  never 
on  earth.  God  had  given  me  much  to  live  for  now ;  every 
day,  from  a  full  heart,  I  thanked  Him  for  it.  I  honored  and 
revered  my  husband.  I  regarded  him  with  a  yearning,  wist 
ful  affection.  The  sweetest  pleasure  I  had  was  in  consulting 
his  tastes  and  anticipating  his  wishes.  How  I  wished  that  he 
needed  me  a  little  more.  I  was  glad  that  he  was  so  self- 
poised  and  strong ;  that  his  life  was  so  complete ;  and  yet 
if  he  had  only  needed  me  a  little  more  !  Surely  the  wells  of 


260  Victoire. 

love  in  my  being  had  never  been  sounded ;  my  power  of 
devotion  longed  for  an  object  to  call  it  out  to  the  utmost. 
Yet  those  were  pleasant  times,  when  I  drove  down  through 
the  aisle  of  cathedral  elms  to  meet  him  each  evening  as  he 
came  from  the  city.  Sometimes  Morna  was  there,  and  Hope 
came  from  school,  and  we  had  laughter  and  songs,  and  walks 
and  stories.  Yes,  those  were  happy  times.  There  was  good 
to  be  done,  and  enough  of  it.  My  life  need  not  grow  morbid 
from  inaction.  There  was  Moma  and  Hope  to  live  for  ;  their 
future  to  wait  for.  There  was  Kate  Murphy  to  be  civilized. 
There  was  George  Washington  Peacock.  To  be  sure  I  could 
not  change  the  end  of  his  nose.  I  could  not  chisel  it  till  it 
assumed  a  more  classic  outline.  But  I  could  teach  him  Eng 
lish  grammar,  that  the  poor  boy's  bound  soul  might  utter  his 
native  tongue  with  less  physical  wear  and  tear  to  himself. 
Yes,  there  was  good  enough  to  be  done.  Did  not  a  great 
Babylon  of  sjn  and  sorrow  lie  just  beyoud  the  precincts  of 
Bel  Eden  ?  While  there  was  so  much  misery  to  be  healed, 
should  a  woman  complain  that  her  life  could  find  no  great 
object?  Could  she  be  justified  in  making  her  own  selfish 
heart-wants  the  centre  ot  her  universe  ? 

I  commenced  Morna's  portrait.  Twice  a  week  she  came 
and  sat  before  me.  In  trying  to  embody  that  tragic  yet 
magnificent  face,  I  found  food  for  my  enthusiasm  and  full 
employment  for  my  faculties.  Art  was  again  an  inspiration 
as  vivid  and  pervading  as  when  I  painted  out  my  first  dream 
in  Mrs.  Skinher's  attic  chamber.  Thus  life  had  come ;  had 
given  me  so  much  ;  how  could  I  ever  be  dissatisfied  or  selfishly 
crave  another  joy  to  be  added  to  my  portion? 

It  was  June.  I  had  been  married  two  years.  I  was  sitting 
in  the  room  which  once  I  had  playfully  wished  for  my  studio — 
the  highest  chamber  in  the  tower  overlooking  the  grounds  of 
Bel  Eden,  the  Hudson,  the  blue  precipitous  palisades,  the 
di>tant  city.  It  was  my  studio,  in  its  appointments  looking 
like  hundreds  of  other  studios  which  may  be  seen  in  the  world. 
There,  beneath  the  skylight,  stood  the  easel  with  its  unfinished 
picture.  This,  most  people  would  have  thought,  a  study, 
an  ideal  face.  They  could  scarcely  imagine  a  human  one  so 
surpassingly  lovely  that  it  could  claim  to  be  its  original.  This 
picture  was  to  go  forth  to  the  world  ht-aring  the  name  of 
H.-l.r,  yd  it  \\:is  M-.iively  an  idealized  portrait  of  Hope. 
Then,  besides,  here  were  the  busts  and  pictures  which  find 
their  way  into  almost  every  studio,  besides  some  which  never 


Life.  261 

fovmd  their  way  into  any  but  this  one.  Opposite  each  other 
hung  the  portraits  of  my  father  and  mother ;  while  near, 
gazing  into  each  other's  eyes,  were  the  faces  of  Frederick  and 
Beatrice.  Sacred  faces,  sacredly  cherished,  lavishly  loved,  I 
wanted  them  where  I  could  look  up  to  them  always  for 
benediction,  for  inspiration.  These  were  the  woman's  idols, 
reigning  supreme  amid  all  the  artist's  treasures.  Yet  the 
latter  were  scattered  around  with  almost  prodigal  profusion. 
Here  was  Aphrodite's  little  foot,  which  might  just  as  well 
have  been  called  Morna's,  modelled  in  marble.  Here  was  the 
august  bust  of  Athena,  on  whose  royal  face  I  looked  with 
ever-kindling  admiration,  and  sometimes  with  a  sigh.  I  could 
never  be  Athena  now. 

A  part,  on  their  sculptured  brackets,  gazing  upon  each 
other  in  conscious  emulation,  stood  the  Apollo  Belvidere  in 
the  glory  of  his  manful  beauty,  and  the  Venus  of  Milo  in  the 
pomp  of  her  sumptuous  womanhood.  Here,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  was  Raphael's  Madonna  beside  Raphael's  own  still 
diviner  face.  Here,  too,  Correggio's  Christ,  which  you 
know  had  followed  me  through  many  sunless  spots,  ere  it 
reached  a  resting-place  as  harmonious  and  hallowed  as  this. 
Pictures  in  every  stage  of  development,  from  the  aerial  out 
line  to  the  full,  warm-tinted  form,  the  softly  shaded  land 
scapes  were  carelessly  grouped  about  the  room.  Embedded 
in  the  mossy  carpet,  they  leaned  against  the  walls,  some  half- 
revealing  themselves  as  they  peered  out  from  behind  others  ; 
and  some,  hiding  their  faces  entirely,  showing  instead  blanks 
of  grey  canvas.  The  braided  beryline  and  ruby  light  stream 
ing  from  the  gorgeous  window,  was  attempered  by  deep  folds 
of  drapery.  But  one  stood  wide  open  now,  in  which  I  sat 
in  a  low  seat,  my  feet  resting  on  the  lace-like  balcony  into 
which  all  the  windows  opened.  I  often  sat  here  at  this  hour, 
just  as  the  day  was  going  to  look  out  on  one  of  the  grandest 
amphitheatres  of  beauty  which  ever  stretched  away  before 
human  sight.  But  now  I  did  not  see  the  sunset  crimsoning 
the  white  clouds  or  the  emerald  hills  ;  I  did  not  see  the  glim 
mering  city  or  the  gleaming  river.  I  did  not  watch  the 
golden  and  purple  shadows  flit  through  the  shimmering  trees, 
nor  the  fountain  scattering  about  its  lavish  diamonds ;  nor 
think  of  the  gay  congregations  of  flowers  sending  up  to  me 
their  evening  oblation  of  perfume.  I  neither  saw  nor  thought 
of  the  objects  which  had  grown  to  be  a  part  of  my  daily  life, 
for  I  was  absorbed  in  a  letter  which  I  was  reading,  and  these 
are  a  portion  of  the  words  which  it  contained  : — 


262  Victoire. 

"  I  ara  not  able  to  banish  your  Niobe,  although  I  have 
endeavored  to  do  so.  Niobe  is  more  the  embodiment  of  a 
spirit  than  of  a  mere  face.  The  features  are  noble,  the  eyes 
glorious  ;  so  are  the  eyes  and  features  of  other  pictures,  which 
possess  for  me  no  such  charm.  It  is  the  spirit  radiating  from 
every  line,which  arrests  and  fascinates  so  many  beholders. 

"You  have-caught  the  essence  of  a  beautiful  soul  and  ren 
dered  it  palpable  in  an  immortal  form.  Yet  Niobe  embodies 
a  divine  beauty  which  can  never  be  resolved  into  mere  color 
or  lines.  It  emanates  from  her,  it  hovers  over  her,  a  glory 
which  can  be  felt  yet  never  described  ;  if  it  were  possible  to 
portray  it  by  any  material  symbol,  it  could  not  be  the  purely 
spiritual  effluence  which  it  is.  To  suggest  the  perfect,  ever 
more  hovering  beyond,  is  the  highest  revelation  of  the  highest 
art.  Your  critics  say  that  Niobe  lacks  the  grandest  linea 
ments  of  a  tragic  face,  and  that  her  form  is  wanting  in  ma 
jesty.  This  is  true,  perhaps,  if  she  is  judged  solely  as  the 
representative  of  the  ancient  idea.  To  me  she  is  not  so  much 
the  embodied  type  of  a  mythic  goddess,  as  she  is  the  Niobe 
of  your  own  conception,  the  mortal  woman  of  to-day,  whom 
sorrow  has  transfigured  into  something  divine  without  robbing 
her  of  one  of  her  sweet,  womanly  attributes.  I  judge  that  you 
are  still  young"  from  the  sympathetic,  lingering  touch  you  have 
given  to  the  lines  of  youth  which  woe  has  not  swept  from  your 
Niobe's  face.  Yes,  I  think  that  you  are  young  as  years  are 
told,  yet  how  much  you  must  have  lived  in  your  earthly  so 
journ;  how  wide  a  scope  you  must  have  encompassed  in  your 
range  of  thought,  of  aspiration,  of  sympathy,  before  you  could 
embody  such  a  soul  as  this !  Through  your  Niobe  you  draw 
near  to  me,  breathing  of  a  royal  yet  saddened  womanhood, 
with  distant,  mystic  suggestions  of  that  magnetic  sympathy 
through  which  these  thoughts  will  from  me  to  you  vibrate 
without  a  thrill  of  dissonance. 

"  As  deep  calleth  unto  deep,  so  does  soul  answer  unto  soul. 
The  great  flood  of  ocean,  as  it  rolls  under  the  influence  of 
countless  stars  in  their  far  blue  homes,  together  with  all  the 
moving  and  blending  forces  of  universal  creation,  proclaim  a 
correspondent  chain  of  cognate  elements  in  the  spiritual  world. 
Sympathy  is  produced  through  the  medium  of  organic  impres 
sions,  but  absolute  friendship  may  grow  out  of  the  veriest 
abstractions.  Do  you  not  believe  that  the  contemplation  of 
the  good,  the  beautiful,  in  every  form,  seems  doubly  beauti 
ful  when  shared  even  in  thought  by  another  who  can  sympa 
thize  to  the  utmost  in  our  exquisite  enjoyment  of  them  ?  I 


Life.  263 

"believe  also  that  when  another  has  appealed  to  that  which  is 
highest  in  our  nature,  it  is  a  joy  to  answer  that  appeal.  That 
when  another  has  embodied  our  own  highest  spiritual  concep 
tions,  whether  in  form,  in  color,  or  in  words — embodied  that 
which  we  have  always  felt,  yet  never  had  the  power  to  ex 
press — the  least  return  that  we  can  make  is  to  tell  that  soul 
what  it  has  done  for  us. 

"  As  I  reverently  fear  God,  in  whom  all  my  hopes  are  cen 
tered,  I  do  solemnly  declare  that  these  are  my  motives  for 
addressing  you.  Here  I  trace  an  ineffaceable  record  of  my 
gratitude  for  the  lovely  vision  you  have  given  me  of  a  rare, 
human,  glorified  womanhood.  I  confess  that  if  Niobe  was 
not  more  to  me  than  a  picture,  she  would  not  have  called  forth 
all  that  I  have  said.  She  brings  back  to  me  more  palpably 
than  I  dare  think  one  who  has  made  the  sweetness  and  the 
sadness  of  my  mortal  life.  I  do  not  deny  that  I  deeply  desire 
an  interchange  of  sentiment  with  the  soul  which  gave  her 
birth.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  so  calculated  to  refine  and 
elevate  the  mind  of  man  as  a  frank,  open,  sincere  interchange  of 
thought,  with  a  pure,  gifted,  Christian  woman.  It  is  the  alem 
bic  through  which  the  holiest  friendship  distils  its  sweets. 

"  Thus,  while  I  beg  your  pardon  for  introducing  myself  to 
you  unannounced,  I  shall  never  cease  to  cherish  a  grateful 
recollection  of  your  goodness,  should  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to 
win  a  reply. 

"  Respectfully  yours, 

"  PAUL  AMBROSE  MOTSTCRIEFFE. 

"  No Place,  New  York,  June  — ,18  — ." 

I  read  this  letter  through  once,  twice,  thrice ;  then  I  held 
it  before  me  to  see  how  far  I  might  judge  of  the  writer's  indi 
viduality  by  this  embodied  expression  of  his  mind.  It  was 
written  on  full-sized  letter-paper,  unmarred  by  "  rules,"  pure, 
fine,  glossy  as  satin.  The  chirography,  devoid  of  all  preten 
sion,  was  remarkable  for  elegance.  It  displayed  no  vulgar 
flourishes,  no  writing-master  precision,  no  nervous  quirks,  no 
ambitious  ascension,  no  sharp  plunges  of  lines  in  a  downward 
direction.  Every  letter  stood  bold  in  the  masculine  vigor  of 
its  form ;  yet  delicate,  almost  feminine  in  its  shading,  as  if 
traced  by  a  light,  fastidious  hand.  There  were  no  words 
erased,  no  words  left  out  to  be  hoisted  in  untimely  haste  upon 
the  shoulders  of  their  fellows  over  the  pinnacle  of  a  tottering 
caret.  There  was  nothing  cramped,  contracted,  hurried.  The 
full,  clear  lines,  encircled  by  their  broad,  snowy  margin,  sug- 


264  Victoire. 

gested  only  strength  and  harmony,  beautiful  freedom,  infi 
nite  grace. 

Letters  written  amid  the  hurry  of  business,  beneath  a  pres 
sure  of  care,  in  moments  of  exhaustion  or  pain,  cannot  be 
regarded  as  fair  representatives  of  their  writers.  But  when 
an  individual  in  an  hour  of  leisure,  with  perfect  deliberation, 
sits  down  to  record  for  you  a  pure  expression  of  thought 
or  feeling,  you  may  accept  that  letter  as  the  synonym  of  its 
author.  As  you  open  it,  you  will  inhale  the  very  atmosphere 
of  attraction  or  repulsion  which  you  are  conscious  of  in  the 
living  presence.  It  is  instinct  with  a  single  personality.  As 
in  action,  here  character  publishes  itself  unawares ;  you  can 
detect  it  in  the  texture  of  the  paper,  in  the  hue  of  the  ink,  in 
the  distorted  angles,  or  melodious  curves  of  the  letters.  The 
idiosyncrasies'  of  character  will  stamp  the  visible  lines  no  less 
than  the  invisible  thought  which  they  breathe  to  you.  The 
seal  of  the  soul  from  which  it  emanated  was  on  the  letter 
which  I  held  in  my  hand,  and  I  felt  drawn  within  the  sphere 
of  its  alluring  attraction.  Its  simple  mechanical  beauty  satis 
fied  my  aesthetic  sense.  Its  delicate  words  of  prodigal  praise 
satisfied  my  love  of  approbation.  Its  spiritual  conception  of 
Niobe  satisfied  a  love  higher  than  my  self-love  could  be,  my 
love  for  Morna — for  Niobe  was  only  a  slightly  idealized  por 
trait  of  Morna.  I  had  not  created  the  soul  of  my  Niobe, 
but  only  embodied  it  as  I  recognised  it  in  my  living  friend. 

It  had  become  no  unusual  occurrence  to  receive  letters  from 
persons  whom  I  had  never  met.  Since  the  advent  of  Niobe 
into  the  world  of  art,  notes  of  compliment,  notes  of  inquiry, 
every  day  found  their  way  to  Bel  Eden.  Henri  brought  my 
letters  from  the  city  every  evening,  and  had  handed  me  this 
about  an  hour  before,  with  the  remark  : — 

"  This  must  be  another  letter  from  one  of  your  Niobe  wor 
shippers." 

I  paused»beside  him  for  a  moment,  and  we  looked  together 
at  the  seal  upon  the  envelope  (the  only  ostentatious  mark 
about  it)  which  displayed  in  clear  outline  a  crest  and  coat 
of  arms. 

"  Well,  little  girl,  run  and  read  it.  Doubtless  it  is  full  of 
pleasant  things.  You  may  tell  me  all  about  them  some  time, 
but  I  am  very  busy  now,"  said  Henri,  kindly,  but  with  his 
most  preoccupied  air.  He  passed  into  his  study,  and  I,  left 
alone,  went  to  read  my  letter  in  the  silence  of  my  sanc 
tuary. 

I  did  not  expect  to  be  especially  interested,  but  was  thank- 


Life.  265 

ful  for  a  little  variety  to  occupy  my  thought,  and  to  keep  me 
from  feeling  lonely.  But  from  the  moment  my  eye  rested  on 
that  beautiful  page,  my  heart  absorbed  its  words  with  a  new, 
strange  interest. 

At  last  with  the  thought,  "  Perhaps  Henri  is  not  busy 
now,"  I  arose  with  my  open  letter  and  went  to  read  it  with 
him.  His  study  was  the  room  beneath  mine.  Pause  a  moment 
on  the  threshold  with  me,  and  say  if  you  think  that  there  could 
be  a  lovelier  bijou  of  a  study  in  all  the  land.  Every  side  was 
lined  with  alcoves  filled  with  books,  whose  harmonious  binding 
and  classic  arrangement  could  not  fail  to  satisfy  the  most 
artistic  eye.  The  gothic  cornices  of  carved  rosewood  were 
surmounted  with  busts  suggestive  of  the  character  of  the 
books  below.  Homer  and  Dante,  Shakespeare  and  Corneille, 
looked  down  upon  the  poets'  alcove.  Herodotus  and  Xeno- 
phon,  with  Gibbon  and  Macaulay,  reigned  in  silent  state  above 
the  arch  of  history.  Thus  above  their  own  peculiar  realm, 
many  kings  of  ancient  and  modern  science  sat  enthroned  in 
white  and  silent  majesty.  In  the  embrasures  between  the 
alcoves  were  set  the  stained  windows,  filling  the  room  with 
floating  lights,  crossing  each  other  with  violet  and  golden 
hues.  There  were  only  two  pictures  in  the  room,  one  a  full 
length  portrait  of  Victoire,  with  free  hair  and  student's  dress, 
painted  by  her  beloved  master,  M.  Savonne,  purchased  of  him 
by  Henri  Rochelle  after  her  departure  from  Paris.  The  other 
was  a  magnificent  portrait  of  Hem-i  Rochelle  himself,  in  all 
the  high,  cold  beauty  of  his  statuesque  manhood.  The  velvet 
carpet  was  sown  with  moss  roses,  the  ebony  table  in  the  cen 
tre  of  the  room  was  crowded  with  books  and  folios,  present 
ing  that  disarranged  appearance  which  is  the  perfection  of 
arrangement  to  the  student's  eye.  Beside  its  gold-mounted 
esci'itoire  stood  an  alabaster  vase  filled  with  white  and  crimson 
flowers,  which  I  had  gathered  that  evening  in  anticipation  of 
their  master.  And  now  beside  them,  in  easy  undress,  in 
a  deep  library  chair,  sat  that  master,  absorbed  in  a  ponder 
ous  folio.  He  was  so  much  absorbed  that  he  did  not  hear  me 
as  I  paused  on  the  threshold,  did  not  notice  me  as  I  passed 
softly  by  him  and  went  and  stood  in  an  open  window  di 
rectly  beneath  the  one  in  which  I  had  sat  above,  and,  like 
that,  opening  into  a  hanging  balcony.  He  was  reading,  and 
I  listened : 

"  They  differ  from  the  optic  ganglia  of  birds  and  the  lower 
vertebrata,  being  divided  by  a  transverse  furrow  into  anterior 

12 


266  Victoire. 

and  posterior  eminences,  whence  they  are  known  as  the  cor 
pora  quadragemina.  The  auditory  ganglia  are  lodged  in  the 
substance  of  the  medulla  oblongata,  forming  the  gray  nuclei 
of  the  strands  termed  the  posterior  pyramids;  and  similar 
nuclei  in  the  restiform  bodies,  are  the  ganglionic  centres  of 
the  glosso-pharyngeal  nerves,  and  perhaps  minister  to  the 
sense  of  taste." 

Here  the  fluttering  of  the  open  letter  in  my  hand,  stirred 
by  a  passing  breeze,  arrested  his  attention.  Turning  and 
seeing  me,  he  said  : 

"  Ah,  Victoire,  is  that  you !  Some  other  time,  child,  I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you.  You  know  that  I  told  you 
I  was  busy.  I  am  very  busy  still.  To-morrow  I  lecture 
before  the  Medical  College." 

"  I  only  came  down  to  read  this  letter  with  you.  It  is 
different  from  the  other  letters  which  I  have  received ;  I  would 
like  your  opinion  of  it,"  I  said. 

"•What  letter  ?  Oh,  the  one  I  brought.  "Well,  it  praises 
Niobe,  does  it  not  ?  I  am  sure  that  it  ought  to  praise. 
When  I  have  an. hour  of  leisure  I  will  attend  to  it;  but  I 
cannot  be  interrupted  now." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  disturbed  you  ;  I  did  not  mean 
to,  Henri,"  I  said,  softly  retracing  my  steps  towards  the 
door. 

"  I  know  that  you  did  not  mean  to ;  you  are  too  good  a 
little  girl  for  that.  Yet  I  must  tell  you,  Victoire,  that  you 
do  disturb  me  often  by  coming  into  the  study  when  I  am  so 
completely  occupied.  It  is  becoming  a  habit,  or  I  should  not 
speak  of  it.  I  know  that  you  do  not  wish  to  confirm  a 
habit  which  would  render  you  annoying  to  me.  I  enjoy 
your  society  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world  ;  but  I 
must  not  allow  my  fondness  for  it  to  interfere  with  my  duty  ; 
if  I  did  I  should  be  unfitted  for  my  work  in  the  world.  Here 
after  when  I  shut  myself  in  here  you  must  fancy  that  '  no 
admittance'  is  written  on  the  door,  even  for  you.  When  I 
have  leisure  to  chat  with  you  I  shall  always  climb  to  your 
eyrie,  or  make  my  appearance  in  the  parlor  below." 

"  Forgive  me,  Henri,"  were  the  words  which  rose  to  my 
lips ;  but  as  I  looked  towards  him  I  saw  that  he  was  already 
engrossed  in  the  scroll  before  him. 

1  stole  quietly  down  the  stairs,  out  into  the  open  vestibule 
of  the  tower.  It  looked  very  pleasant,  with  its  floor  of  tesse- 
lated  marble,  with  the  rich  ivies  clustering  around  its  massive 


Life.  267 

arches.  I  sat  down  on  the  threshold.  Serene  was  the 
evening,  lovely  the  scene  before  me  ;  yet  I  buried  my  face  in 
my  hands.  My  heart  swelled  as  if  it  must  burst  into  an  agony 
of  weeping.  Yet  I  did  not.  "Was  he  not  in  the  room  just 
above  me  ?  He  should  not  be  disturbed  again  by  me  sitting 
down  there  crying  like  a  homeless  child. 

I  had  disturbed  him  with  my  presence.  I  had  disturbed 
him  many  times — so  many  times  that  at  last  he  had  been  obliged 
to  tell  me  of  it.  I  could  fill  the  day  with  employment ;  but 
in  the  evening  I  wanted  some  one  to  talk  with,  some  one  to 
talk  with  me.  I  had  sought  my  husband,  and  had  made  my 
self  troublesome.  Was  he  cruel  ?  No,  he  was  not  even 
unkind.  The  words  sounded  harsh,  yet  the  tone  was 
pleasant.  He  was  thinking  only  of  his  obligations,  not  of 
wounding  me.  He  would  be  astonished  if  he  knew  that  he 
had  hurt  me,  and  would  see  no  reason  whatever  for  my  feeling 
hui't.  If  his  duty  as  a  man  in  the  woi'ld  was  not  fulfilled,  the 
world  would  not  excuse  him.  He  knew  that,  and  acted 
accordingly.  I  honored  him  the  more  for  it.  Could  I  respect 
a  man  who  was  careless  of  his  obligations?  How  many  he 
had !  How  much  he  was  sought,  how  much  honored,  how 
much  good  he  did  !  I  ought  to  have  been  more  careful  and 
never  have  interrupted  him,  and  yet  I  had  ;  I  had  obliged  him 
to  speak  to  me.  I  was  banished  from  his  study.  He  would 
not  think  of  it  when  next  he  saw  me,  but  I  should  think  of 
nothing  else.  He  was  as  kind  to  me  as  on  the  first  day  of  our 
marriage,  yet  how  little  I  saw  of  him  now.  He  probably  was 
scarcely  aware  how  completely  he  was  absorbed  with  public 
duties,  how  rare  were  his  moments  of  leisure.  This  accumula 
tion  of  responsibility  had  been  so  gradual  in  its  growth  that 
it  fairly  devolved  upon  him  before  he  knew  it.  He  had  never 
sought  it,  yet  if  he  had  chosen,  perhaps  he  would  not  have 
avoided  it.  His  executive  genius  craved  full  occupation.  He 
was  one  to  whom  great  responsibilities  came,  he  had  so  much 
capacity  to  bear  them  with  honor  to  himself  and  benefit  to 
others. 

Still  he  must  have  thought  of  these  things,  for  once  he  said : 
"  Victoire,  it  is  very  fortunate  that  you  are  interested  in  art, 
or  you  would  be  singing  the  song  of  the  neglected  wife.  I 
never  intended  that  medical  practice  should  absorb  quite  so 
much  of  my  life.  But  I  must  do  a  man's  work  while  I  am  in 
my  prime."  In  these  words  he  had  only  said  what  thousands 
of  men  say.  No  man  who  loves  his  wife  intends  to  neglect 
her;  he  would  shrink  from  the  thought.  He  only  intends  to 


268  Victoire. 

do  his  man's  work  well,  to  sustain  and  strengthen  the  respec 
tability  of  his  family,  to  contend  for  life's  prizes  proudly  among 
his  peers.  High,  manly  impulses  are  these,  and  he  does  not 
forget  that  all  the  glory  which  he  can  win  will  reflect  its 
lustre  upon  her.  But  neglect  is  of  slow,  insidious  growth. 
Care,  business,  the  world,  are  very  aggressive.  They  choke 
the  springs  of  affection  till  the  heart  grows  as  dry  as  dust.  Ere 
he  is  aware,  the  sweetnesses  of  life  are  gone.  Loving  words  and 
smiles,  those  tender  charities  of  home,  whose  fragrance  used 
to  go  with  him  out  into  the  world,  perfuming  all  his  toil,  are 
dead ;  they  died  he  does  not  know  when ;  he  does  not  even 
know  when  life  became  the  metallic,  grinding  thing  that  it  is. 
He  only  knows  that  now  he  has  no  time  for  anything  but 
work.  Is  he  not  spending  his  life  for  his  wife  and  children  ? 
Would  he  not  die  for  them?  Who  is  better  supported  or 
more  handsomely  dressed  ?  What  more  can  a  woman  ask  ? 
Henri  Rochelle  had  fulfilled  his  word.  Every  day  he  gave 
substantial  proof  that  he  loved  his  wife  above  all  women.  He 
had  established  that  fact  by  actions ;  therefore  words  were 
unnecessary.  In  the  first  letter  which  he  wrote  me,  did  he 
not  inform  me  that  he  could  live  his  love,  but  could  not  tell 
it  ?  A  life  was  a  nobler  expression  of  a  great  sentiment  than 
language.  Each  soul,  restricted  by  its  own  nature,  can  only 
express  itself  as  that  nature  allows;  therefore  every  soul's 
expression  is  partial.  Henri  Rochelle  attested  his  devotion 
by  magnanimity  and  munificent  deeds.  Why  did  I  not 
accept  the  beautiful  fact  of  his  love,  proven  in  his  own  way, 
without  pining  for  the  demonstrations  of  weaker  souls,  the 
hourly  tenderness  of  life  ?  Had  he  not  given  me  Bel  Eden — 
Bel  Eden  with  its  lavish  wealth,  its  luxurious  beauty  ?  Had 
he  not  given  me  Zenaide,  my  gentle  spirited  beautiful  horse; 
my  dear  dumb  friend,  my  daily  companion?  The  little 
pinnace,  with  flashing  oars  and  fluttering  sails  throbbing 
now  on  the  blue  waters  just  below  the  grounds  of  Bel  Eden, 
he  had  built  for  me,  and  would  call  it  nothing  but  "  Victoire," 
though  I  wanted  to  name  it  "  Hope."  Did  he  not  give  me 
culture,  ease,  luxury,  beauty,  everything  but  Uis  daily  self? 
Everything  but  the  divine  communion  which  I  dreamed  of, 
the  oneship  of  spirit  which  I  sighed  for  most.  I  spurned  his 
love  once.  I  proudly  told  him  that  I  desired  only  art  for  my 
husband.  He  was  avenged  now,  yet  did  not  know  it.  Should 
I  apprise  him  of  his  triumph  ?  Should  I  tell  him  that  I 
wanted  nothing  so  much  now  as  that  he  should  let  me  love 
him,  and  lavish  upon  him  all  the  rising  tenderness  of  my  soul. 


Life.  269 

Yes,  I  was  willing  to  accord  him  the  triumph.  I  knew  that 
he  would  not  spurn  me  ;  he  would  accept  it  rather,  and  say 
that  such  tenderness  was  beautiful  in  me,  a  woman  ;  and  yet 
I  could  not  tell  him,  I  could  not  offer  it,  because  he  did  not 
need  it.  Calmly  writing  the  medical  thesis  above  me,  how 
little  that  strong  man  knew  of  the  poor  child  who  sat  below  in 
her  great  loneliness  and  want. 

I  lifted  my  face  from  my  hands  and  looked  around.  Never 
had  Bel  Eden  seemed  to  me  so  lovely,  so  soft,  so  silent.  The 
evening  was  steeped  in  calm.  The  trees  stood  motionless. 
Even  the  quivering  needles  of  the  pines  were  at  rest.  The 
bare  hearts  of  the  roses  were  stirless,  waiting  for  the  dew. 
The  only  sound  which  stirred  the  silence  was  the  dreamy 
lapse  of  the  fountain  murmuring  amid  the  flowers.  I  looked 
away  to  a  marble  cross  which  shone  white  beneath  the  shadow 
of  a  cluster  of  pines.  It  was  my  fancy  to  place  it  there, 
bearing  the  names  of  Frederick  and  Beatrice  ;  and  now  I, 
who  had  always  loved  the  world  so  well,  looked  at  it,  and 
wondered  if  it  would  not  be  sweeter,  after  all,  like  them  to  be 
quiet  and  at  rest.  Once  I  had  been  mad  with  my  love  of 
beauty.  Perfection  in  form  and  color  satisfied  my  unawakeued 
nature.  Now  the  eye,  satisfied  with  beauty,  mocked  the 
craving,  hungry  heart.  Once  I  had  dreamed  of  fame  ;  had 
dreamed  that  there  was  something  grand  in  doing  wondrous 
deeds,  and  then  listening  to  "  the  nations  praise  them  afar 
off."  What  did  I  care  for  fame  now  !  Nothing.  What  to 
me  the  acclaim  of  the  distant  multitudes,  even  if  I  could 
win  it  ?  What  if  people  would  visit  my  grave,  or  the 
house  that  I  had  lived  in,  or  cover  my  memory  with  praises 
after  I  was  dead  ?  Was  such  mocking  oblation  worth  the 
gnawing  pain  of  a  starved,  human  existence  ?  Could  it 
atone  for  a  mortal  life  barren,  solitary,  sorrowful  ?  No ; 
what  I  craved  was  fulness  of  being,  a  personal  life,  melo 
dious,  complete.  After  all,  mine  was  not  a  self-abnegating 
nature.  I  loved  to  see  others  happy ;  I  loved  to  make  them 
so ;  but  I  loved  also  to  be  happy  myself.  My  soul's  hunger 
was  not  easily  appeased,  and  was  only  quelled  for  a  season,  the 
more  imperiously  to  assert  itself.  No  wild,  worshipping  passion 
my  nature  craved.  It  only  asked  for  one  to  fill  its  great  world  of 
affection  ;  for  a  single  being  and  that  being  mine  by  every  holy 
tie,  on  whom  I  might  pour  the  flood  of  tenderness,  pent  and 
moaning  in  my  heart.  It  is  a  false  idea  that  a  woman's  great 
want  in  life  is  only  to  win,  selfishly  to  absorb  love.  She  does 
not  ask  to  be  the  object  of  an  overmastering  passion  so  much 


270 


Victoire. 


as  she  craves  an  object  which  she  herself  may  worship.  Her 
sublimest  conceptions  of  an  infinite  God,  her  tendered  love  for 
a  God  jnade  manifest  in  the  flesh,  cannot  absorb  her  utterly. 
Her  human  affections  must  have  human  objects,  and  if  every 
tendril  of  love  clings  to  its  legitimate  support,  her  whole 
being  expands  in  symmetrical  grace.  But  if  life  defrauds  her 
affections  of  their  natural  aliment,  the  womanly  nature  becomes 
distorted.  One  faculty  is  sure  to  grow  out  of  all  harmonious 
proportion,  and  live  by  devouring  the  rest;  or  all  dwindle 
and  die  together.  A  woman's  soul  is  burdened  with  love  and 
reverence; 'it  is  her  nature  to  lay  these  costly  offerings  at  the 
feet  of  man.  The  grandest  work  of  God,  he  ever  wins  her 
worship  ;  she  only  asks  him  to  be  worthy  of  it. 

"This  isolation,  this  solitude  of  soul,  is  it  ever  to  be  my 
portion  ?"  I  said,  looking  still  towards  the  white  cross  under 
the  pines.  I  felt  alone.  I  was  alone.  Hope  was  in  Paris.  The 
schools  in  New  York  were  doubtless  just  as  good,  but  Henri 
wished  her  to  have  advantages  of  the  institution  and  instructor 
under  whose  shadow  Beatrice  was  educated.  Six  months  had 
passed  since  she  went  away,  and  now  all  that  I  had  of  her 
was  in  her  tender  letters.  Morna,  Morna  Avondale,  the  gifted 
cantatrice,  the  great  soul-singer,  my  best  loved  friend,  whose 
praises  were  now  on  many  tongues,  was  in  the  city.  She  did 
not  neglect  me,  but  she  was  not  here  now.  I  must  do  some 
thing  to  forget  myself.  Should  George  Peacock  saddle  Ze- 
naide?  No,  I  did  not  want  to  go  and  ride  alone.  Should  he 
go  to  the  boat  with  me  ?  I  could  help  to  row  it  myself.  No, 
it  would  be  no  pleasure  to  sail  alone.  I  thought  of  Hebe  on 
the  easel.  It  was  too  dark  to  paint.  Art  was  a  beautiful 
phase  in  my  life,  but  I  could  not  live  on  art.  Once  I  thought 
that  I  could ;  but  I  was  mistaken.  There  were  two  things 
which  I  could  do  immediately.  I  could  take  a  book  or  I 
could  go  to  bed.  I  chose  to  do  the  former.  I  read  the  letter 
in  my  hand  again,  and  resolved  to  answer  it.  Then  1  went 
into  the  parlor,  and  sat  down  by  a  soft  light,  and  took  up  a 
new  number  of  the  best  magazine  of  the  day.  I  opened  upon 
a  story  of  Italian  life,  and  was  very  soon  impressed  by  the 
rich  versatility  of  its  style.  It  was  terse  and  masculine ;  it 
was  humorous  and  witty ;  it  was  tender  and  poetic. 

The  story  is  nothing-  to  you ;  but  these  words  which  I  found 
in  it  were  much  to  me : 

"All  meet  some  time  in  their  life  a  being  who  above  all 
others  has  the  power  to  quicken  their  nature,  to  absorb  their 


Life.  271 

soul.  No  eyes  can  ever  burn  so  deep  into  the  heart  as  did 
those  eyes,  those  deep,  lambent,  electric  eyes.  No  voice  can 
ever  move  us  as  did  that  voice,  whose  modulated  melody 
caused  the  pulses  of  joy  to  tremble  till  they  overflowed.  No 
words  can  ever  move  us  as  did  those  words,  which  gave  to  the 
care-covered  present  the  purple  glory  of  the  future — a  future 
more  gorgeous  to  our  love-awakened  eyes  than  the  fabled 
splendor  of  the  Pagan's  Elysium,  or  the  golden  brilliance  of 
the  Christian's  Paradise. 

"  The  hours  are  lightning-winged  which  give  us  such,  com 
munion.  Fate  tears  the  idol  from  our  arms.  Our  paths 
diverge,  seldom  if  ever  to  cross  again  in  the  labyrinths  of  life. 

"With  weary  feet,  with  wearier  hearts  sometimes,  we 
thread  our  way  through  the  mazes  of  the  world.  Gentle 
hands  are  pressed  within  our  own.  Tender  eyes  meet  ours 
in  love.  We  cherish  a  soothing,  a  beautiful  affection  for  the 
beings  who  walk  by  our  side ;  an  affection  which  elevates  our 
nature  if  it  does  not  satisfy  our  heart.  Yet  there  are  moments 
when  we  know  that  we  are  alone.  With  the  ones  who  love 

us  best  we  are  alone,  sighing  for  the  unattainable,  the  lost. 
******** 

"  Only  a  face !  Why  had  it  the  power  to  move  me  so  ? 
Those  eyes  met  mine  in  a  single  gaze,  yet  in  that  the  sweetest 
mystery  of  life  was  told.  No  one  told  your  story,  yet  in  your 
eyes'  ineffable  softness  I  foreread  a  history  and  a  prophecy. 
Faces  more  beautiful  I  had  seen  before ;  fairer  faces  I  have 
gazed  upon  since.  Seductive  eyes  have  cast  upon  me  their 
spell ;  eyes  luminous  with  thought,  eyes  scintillant  with 
genius,  eyes  melting  in  love,  have  awakened  for  me  their 
varied  enchantment.  I  acknowledged  their  witchery,  yet 
sighed  for  the  eyes  which  quickened  first  the  pulses  of  my 
heart.  Where  are  you,  tender  eyes?  Where  are  you,  lost 
face  ?  I  have  sought  you  long,  wearily,  fruitlessly !  In 
your  own  bright  land  where  beauty  abides,  where  sublimity 
ban  made  for  itself  a  perpetual  home  ;  in  the  strife  of  cities, 
amid  the  surging  sea  of  passing  faces,  I  have  searched  for  you, 
yet  found  not  my  lost  vision. 

"  In  solitary  gardens,  where  the  wind  sweeps  through  the 
pines  like  the  thrilling  garments  of  ghosts  ;  on  silent  seas 
and  forsaken  shores ;  on  awful  mountain  tops  where  the  sun 
smites  the  face  of  the  falling  avalanche ;  amid  burning,  home 
less  deserts ;  in  the  trance  of  calm  nights,  when  I  have  looked 
into  the  faces  of  the  isolated  stars,  and  felt  all  the  solitude  of 
eoul  which  can  appal  a  man ;  amid  the  splendor  of  festivals, 


272 


Victoire. 


when  mirth  and  music  taunted  me  with  the  joy  I  had  not 
found ;  I  have  thought  of  you.  An  abiding,  an  absorbing 
thought,  a  perpetual  inspiration,  a  haunting  memory,  sorrow 
ful  yet  tenderly  sweet,  art  thou  to  me,  lost  face !" 

Who  uttered  those  words  ?     I  would  know. 

Life  had  come  to  Henri  Rochelle,  had  given  him  all  that  he 
asked,  and  he  was  satisfied.  All  of  this  world's  prizes  which  he 
ever  had  sought  were  his.  He  was  admired  for  his  talents,  dis 
tinguished  for  his  high  scientific  attainments,  sought  and  honored 
for  his  wealth  and  position,  married  to  the  only  woman  whom 
he  had  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  seek.  Beneath  that  full,  active, 
outward  life  the  current  of  his  inner  being  moved  deep  and 
strong,freighted  so  heavily  with  content  that  it  stood  almost  still. 
He  stood  in  the  midsummer  of  his  years,  and  the  future  held 
no  richer,  riper  joy  than  that  which  he  tasted  now.  It  was 
not  a  foaming,  flashing,  intoxicating  beaker ;  it  was  a  calm, 
overflowing,  sating  draught  of  which  he  drank.  I  drank  from 
the  same  cup  and  was  not  satisfied. 

We  cannot  anticipate  the  stages  of  our  being.  "We  cannot 
anticipate  the  seasons  of  our  development.  In  the  exuberant 
life  of  spring  we  look  in  vain  for  the  calm  fulness  of  summer. 
In  the  ripe  glory  of  summer  we  seek,  yet  find  not,  the  soft 
serenity  of  autumn.  Henri  Rochelle  had  passed  the  fierce 
fever  of  the  earlier  noon  of  being;  the  unshadowed  yet 
slightly  attempered  glory  which  belongs  to  the  later  hour 
of  life's  meridian  was  his.  The  exultant  pulses  of  the  morn 
ing  were  mine.  Life  overflowed  within  me.  With  culminating 
force  it  surged  through  my  soul,  till  it  was  surcharged  with  a 
power  which  had  no  outlet  and  no  object.  The  heavy  pressure 
of  the  outward  calm  which  surrounded  me  repressed,  yet 
could  not  stifle,  the  importunate  life  within.  One  looking  :it 
the  surface  (and  how  few  look  below)  would  have  exclaimed  : 
"  How  fortunate !  The  young  aspirant  of  Mrs.  Skinher's 
attic,  the  sick  orphan  of  the  *  comfortable  home,'  the  poor, 

toiling  designer  of street,  now  the  loved  and  honored 

wife  of  a  rich  and  noble  man  ;  how  fortunate  !"  Remember, 
good  fortune  does  not  consist  in  the  multitude  of  our  posses 
sions,  but  in  the  possession  of  the  thing  which  our  heart 
needs  the  most.  And  now  with  all  my  strivings  after  an  imper 
sonal  life,  a  life  which  was  to  find  its  fruition  outside  of  its 
own  needs,  there  were  moments  when  I  was  only  conscious 
what  a  weary  thing  it  was,  this  constant  effort  to  drag  the 
tenacious  heart  up  to  a  level  of  passivity  where  it  could 


Life. 


273 


never  be  importuned  by  its  own  inherent  wants.  I  had  read 
of  consecrated,  holy  souls,  whose  whole  life  had  been  a 
struggle  to  annihilate  will  and  desire;  who  believed  that 
existence,  to  be  perfect,  must  be  an  utter  negation !  What 
a  grand  idea  was  that  of  utter  self-renunciation !  Where 
the  soul  sought  nothing,  asked  nothing,  but  the  presence  of 
God  ;  where,  amid  all  the  temptations  of  the  world,  it  sat  in 
perfect  quietude,  waiting  for  the  illumination  of  the  Divine 
glory.  I  had  read  of  many,  but  had  never  known  -but  one 
soul  who  reached  this  state  of  unearthly  resignation,  this 
face-to-face  communion  with  Deity ;  and  that  was  my  pure 
and  Christian  mother.  I  took  from  their  resting-places  the 
books  which  she  used  to  read,  traced  on  every  page  by  her 
delicate  hand.  What  consolation,  what  help  it  would  be,  to 
pause  at  these  landmarks  of  the  soul,  where  the  being  who 
gave  me  birth  had  rested  before  me  for  strength  and  comfort. 
I  carried  them  to  my  room,  and  after  that  found  my  daily 
companions  among  the  old  quietists.  The  inspired  utter 
ances  of  Francis  De  Sales  and  Thomas  a  Kempis,  of  Madame 
Guyon  and  Catherine  Adorna ;  the  holy  words  of  the  holy 
Fenelon  ;  the  aspirations  of  the  sublime  but  dreary  Pascal ; 
all  wooed  me  towards  a  higher  life,  which  until  now  I  had 
never  wished  to  enter.  They  had  loved  the  world,  yet  in  its 
fulness  they  relinquished  it.  They  had  been  crucified  to  the 
pomp  and  glory  of  life,  that  they  might  only  live  in  Christ. 
Could  I  ever  reach  that  altitude  of  negation  where  I  should 
desire  nothing  save  only  that  the  will  of  God  should  be  done 
in  me  and  by  me  ? 

There  are  two  eras  in  a  woman's  life  when  she  turns  to 
Thomas  a  Kempis  as  she  turns  to  her  Bible.  The  first  is  at 
the  dawn  of  her  religious  life,  which  usually  is  also  the  dawn 
of  her  womanhood  ;  when  she  loves  the  beautiful  world  in 
which  she  finds  herself ;  yet  in  a  dim,  confused  way  feels  that 
it  is  her  duty  to  renounce  it.  She  is  eager  to  taste  life's 
ungathered  joys,  yet  in  her  very  eagerness  is  born  the  fear 
that  they  will  mock  her  taste  and  fail  to  satisfy  her  hunger. 
Thus  she  turns  to  the  great  teachers  of  renunciation  that 
she  may  begin  early  to  cultivate  a  desire  for  immortal 
food.  When  she  has  drained  her  life-cup  to  the  lees  ;  when 
she  knows  all  its  sweetness  and  its  bitterness  ;  wnen  she 
has  gauged  the  world  and  found  it  wanting;  when  above 
the  grey  waste  of  experience  rises  the  serene  sun  of  the  spi 
ritual  life  which  will  never  know  a  setting,  then  she  comes 
once  more  to  her  holy  teachers,  never  more  to  forsake  them  ; 

12* 


274  Victoire. 

for  the  world  is  no  longer  before  her  but  behind  her,  and 
henceforth  her  guides  will  go  with  her,  hand  in  hand,  to  the 
very  gate  of  the  celestial  city.  Life  had  just  come ;  I  had 
scarcely  tasted  it,  yet  I  knew  it  was  going  to  mock  me.  I 
should  be  compelled  to  learn  it  at  last.  I  would  begin 
now  to  teach  my  self-asserting  soul  the  sublime  lesson  of  abne 
gation.  Thomas  a  Kempis  touched  me  more  nearly  than  all 
the  rest  of  my  teachers.  His  were  the  utterances  of  a  soul 
purified  in  the  world's  fierce  crucible,  not  the  enthusiastic 
rhapsodies  of  a  religious  dreamer  giving  rules  for  overcom 
ing  temptations  which  he  had  never  felt.  He  sounded  the 
depth  of  human  experience  before  he  uttered  the  oracles 
which  appeal  to  the  universal  soul.  I  pored  over  the  words ; 
I  came  to  them  for  wisdom  and  guidance.  I  felt  that  it  was 
the  truth  when  he  said  : — 

"  Know  that  the  love  of  thyself  doth  hurt  thee  more  than 
anything  in  the  world,  ff  thou  seekest  this  or  that,  would'st 
be  here  or  there  to  enjoy  thine  own  pleasure,  thou  shalt  never 
be  quiet  or  free  from  care  ;  for  in  everything  somewhat  will 
be  wanting,  and  in  every  place  there  will  be  some  that  will 
cross  thee." 

Yet  there  were  hours  when  I  was  filled  with  doubts  regard 
ing  this  life  of  the  mystics.  Was  it  the  holiest  life,  after  all  ? 
Was  it  quite  noble  to  ignore  the  world  in  which  God  had 
placed  us,  to  shut  ourselves  away  from  the  temptations  by 
which  He  had  surrounded  us,  to  forsake  the  untaught  and 
sorrowing  masses  of  humanity,  simply  that  we  might  live  an 
ascetic  life  of  rapt  contemplation  and  holy  joy  ?  Had  we 
any  right  to  abuse  the  very  natures  which  He  had  given  us  ? 
to  allow  the  noblest  faculties  with  which  He  had  endowed 
us  to  fall  into  disuse  ?  Would  not  our  nature  approximate 
nearer  to  its  pristine  glory,  by  allowing  it  to  grow  to  sym 
metrical  expansion,  rather  than  by  a  lifelong  effort  to  crush 
and  kill  it  ?  Did  not  every  soul  have  need  of  its  fellows  ? 
Was  it  not  the  highest  use  of  our  gifts  to  use  them  for  the 
benefit  of  others  ?  Could  we  not  glorify  God  more  by  living 
a  simple,  sincere,  consecrated  life  in  the  world,  amid  its  pomp, 
and  glory,  and  beauty,  rather  than  by  fleeing  from  it  to 
spend  our  days  in  pious  meditations  where  we  could  never  be 
touched  by  temptation  nor  delivered  from  evil  ? 

Alas,  for  the  earth-child!  there  were  moments  when  the 
sublime  philosophy  of  religion  went  down  before  the  personal 
want  of  one  young,  eager  heart.  Moments  when  her  grand 


Life.  27  f 

ideal  of  a  grander  life  shifted  far  out  of  sight.     She  only 
knew  that  she  was  very  tired  trying  to  be  wise  and  good. 
She   only  felt   that  her  youth  was  swiftly   passing   without 
paying  to  her  its  full  value.      She  was  conscious  of  some 
thing  which  she  had  missed ;  of  something  hoped  for  which 
she  had  not  found.       She  could  not  define  it,  yet  she  was 
very  sure  that  life  held  in  reserve  from  her  a  depth  of  life 
which  she  had  never  attained.      Why,  after  receiving  the  let 
ter  regarding  Niobe  which  she  has  recorded  for  you,  did  she 
pore  over  the  words  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  and  Madame  Guyon 
with  renewed  assiduity  ?     Was  it  not  because  she  detected 
her  heart  recurring  to  that  letter  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure  ? 
Was  it  not  because  its  subtle  suggestion  of  a  distant  yet  deli 
cious  sympathy  was  answered  by  a  tone   in   her  own   soul 
which  she  thought  it  wise  to  silence  before  it  grew  more  dis 
tinct  ?     Not  that  she  was  conscious  of  anything  sinful  in  that 
tone.     Oh,  no  ;  but  had  she  not  vowed  before  God  to  ask  for 
nothing  but  what  He  had  given  her,  to  desire  nothing  beyond 
the  rich  gifts  which  He  had  bestowed  ?     She  was  grateful  that 
He  had  allowed  this  distant  soul  to  send  her  these  kind  and 
beautiful  words,  but  it  was  enough  to  be  grateful  without 
thinking  of  them  so  often  with  an  ever-recurring,  lingering 
delight.     Certainly  it  had  not  been  her  weakness  to  place  an 
undue  estimate  upon  the  mere  words  of  compliment.     She 
was  well  aware  of  their  cheap  average  value.     She  had  not 
forgotten  that  when  she  needed  fume  and  friends  to  help  her 
earn  her  daily  bread  they  were  far  away.      Both  had  come 
now,  for  she  no  longer  needed  them.     She  was  not  wholly 
indifferent   to  praise — no    one   is.      But   the   admiration    of 
strangers  had  ever  been  to  her  what  music  is  in  a  foreign 
tongue — pleasant  to  the  ear,  but  cold  to  the  heart.     Of  the 
many  letters  which  she  received  this   one  alone  reached  her 
soul ;  from  her  soul  she  answered  it  thus : 

"  Your  words  have  reached  me,  and  I  write  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  grateful  for  them.  You  place  undue  estimate  upon  my 
powers,  yet  do  not  overrate  Niobe,  which  is  the  portrait  of 
the  most  glorious  woman  I  ever  knew.  I  cannot  answer  all 
your  letter.  It  is  not  my  mission  to  write  to  embody  life  in 
words,  but  to  live  what  others  interpret.  In  sensuous  images, 
in  harmonious  colors,  I  strive  vainly  to  portray  the  revela 
tions  of  beauty  which  have  been  made  known  to  me  since 
my  earliest  consciousness.  Like  all  souls,  mine  lives  but  par 
tially  revealed.  It  can  lay  hold  of  no  visible  symbol  by 


276  Victoire. 

which  to  express  its  own  awful  significance.  Your  words 
utter  what  I  have  many  times  thought  and  felt ;  for  this  I 
thank  you." 

I  asked  for  no  further  communication,  yet  I  discovered  my- 
self  wishing  for  one.  For  this  inordinate, desire  I  devoted  an 
extra  hour  to  Thomas  a  Kempis.  I  could  not  divest  myself 
of  the  impression,  although  I  could  give  no  reason  for  it,  that 
the  author  of  the  Niobe  letter  and  the  Italian  story  were  one. 
One  individuality  appealed  to  me  through  both.  I  suddenly 
recollected  one  day,  although  in  the  two  years'  interval  it 
had  passed  from  my  memory,  that  "  Moncrieffe"  was  the  name 
which  the  director  of  the  art  gallery  gave  as  belonging  to 
the  purchaser  of  my  lost  painting.  Could  it  be  the  same 
one  ?  What  chain  of  coincidents,  what  life-links  were  here  ? 
When  I  told  Henri  that  it  must  be  the  same  person  who 
bought  my  picture,  he  smiled  and  said :  "  Very  unlikely. 
There  are  a  thousand  Moncrieffes.  You  would  die,  Victoire, 
if  you  could  not  conjure  up  a  little  romance." 

In  the  meantime  Niobe  continued  to  attract  still  greater 
attention.  In  its  creation  fame  had  not  been  an  end,  yet  it 
brought  me  fame  and  an  acknowledged  position  in  the  world 
of  art.  It  was  made  the  subject  of  elaborate  critiques  ;  it  was 
warmly  praised  and  sharply  blamed.  It  was  engraved  and 
found  its  way  into  the  windows  of  picture-stores,  and  into  the 
pages  of  art-journals.  The  public  was  not  slow  to  recognise 
its  marked  and  mysterious  resemblance  to  Miss  Avondale,  yet 
very  few  imagined  that  it  was  an  actual  portrait.  To  me  all 
the  praise  awarded  it  seemed  only  so  much  homage  to  Morna. 
It  was  Morna  that  people  saw,  recognised,  and  worshipped. 
In  this  fact  my  fondest  wishes  were  realized.  Niobe  was  a 
work  of  love,  and  she  brought  me  love's  reward.  No  one 
could  look  into  Morna's  living  face  without  feeling  its  power. 
And  here  from  the  canvas  looked  Morna;  here  was  the  rapt 
brow,  the  electric  eyes,  radiating  all  the  magnetism  of  a  liv 
ing  soul.  It  was  not  a  dead  picture  but  a  breathing  woman  ; 
a  magnificent,  a  royal  woman.  Henri  was  proud  of  Niobe. 
lie  was  not  one  of  those  little-souled  men  who  considered  all 
]>raisi'  awarded  to  the  wife  as  so  much  stolen  from  themselves. 
He  \\  It  fully  equal  to  sustaining  the  dignity  of  his  manhood, 
even  if  his  wife  did  paint  pictures  while  he  did  not.  To 
him  she  was  his  "  own  Victoire,"  his  "  good  little  girl ;"  if 
the  public  chose  to  praise  Madame  Rochelle,  he  had  no 
objections. 


Strange  Events.  277 


"THINGS    WHAT    HAPPENS    ARK     STRANGER     NOR  ALL    THE 
NOVELS." — Mrs.  Peacock. 

We  talk  of  the  solitude  of  nature.  Is  it  ever  solitary  ? 
Never  are  we  less  alone  than  when  we  enter  her  domain. 
Never  is  life  so  busy  within  us  as  when  we  commune  with 
her  in  silence.  Nature  has  passions,  moods,  tears,  and  smiles. 
She  appeals  to  us  like  a  human  soul.  Not  only  the  cultivated 
and  gifted,  but  the  rude  and  untaught  find  solace  in  her  pre 
sence.  Few  but  at  some  moment  in  their  life  have  found 
consolation  in  a  flower,  companionship  in  the  stars,  and 
a  refrain  of  melody  in  wind  and  waves.  Yet  it  is  our 
humanity,  the  bond  of  human  sympathy,  which  allies  us 
most  closely  to  her  heart.  We  stand  beside  the  sonorous 
sea,  and  every  wave  that  comes  up  and  kisses  our  feet 
calls  for  one  who  stood  beside  us  when  once  we  stood 
there.  We  look  into  the  significant  eyes  of  the  stars, 
feeling  that  if  one  other  pair  of  eyes  could  gaze  up  with  us 
they  would  give  even  to  them  a  deeper  glory.  Why 
does  the  world  hold  some  spots  so  inconceivably  dear? 
Not  because  their  sunlight  is  rarer,  their  flowers  sweeter, 
their  air  more  enticing,  but  because  every  object  which  they 
unfold  is  linked  with  the  memory  of  one  human  presence, 
for  whose  loss  no  charm  of  nature  can  atone. 

But  what  was  the  thrall  which  bound  my  heart  so  closely 
to  Bel  Eden  ?  No  vanished  face  haunted  me  at  every  turn. 
No  tender  memory  of  the  long-buried  past  was  linked  with 
this  spot.  Life  had  never  given  me  here  more  joy  than  she 
gave  me  now.  Yet  never  had  I  seemed  so  near  to  those 
whom  I  had  loved  and  lost  as  when  I  gave  up  my  being  to 
the  rapture  of  solitude  in  the  hush  of  this  Edenized  retreat. 
Never  before  had  nature  wooed  me  with  so  irresistible  a 
voice;  never  before  had  I  felt  my  love  for  her  so  divine  a 
passion  in  my  heart.  Bel  Eden  had  never  been  an  alien  spot 
to  me.  From  the  first  moment  in  which  I  had  gazed  on  its 
beauty  I  felt  as  if  I  had  known  and  loved  it  always.  I 
accounted  for  this  sense  of  kinship  in  the  fact  that  in  many 
ways  it  reminded  me  of  Les  Delices,  or  rather  in  a  dim,  unac 
countable  way  seemed  connected  with  it.  I  had  no  power 
to  analyse  this  association,  and  so  resolved  it  back  to  my 
imagination.  Reason  compelled  me  to  do  this,  for  my  intui 
tion  of  a  relationship  between  them  far  transcended  the  points 
of  resemblance  which  actually  existed  between  these  beautiful 
homes  separated  by  so  many  miles  of  land  and  ocean. 


Victoire. 

Day  after  day  I  wandered  through  the  haunts  of  Bel  Eden, 
through  its  flowery  paths,  its  deep  glens,  its  broad  tree- 
domed  vistas ;  rested  beside  the  mimic  lakes  asleep  amid  its 
hills;  followed  the  windings  of  the  mountain  brook,  ever 
losing,  ever  finding  its  garrulous  way  through  the  ravine  to  the 
river.  I  leaned  upon  the  bough-woven  bridges  which  spanned 
it  beneath  the  dense  trees,  and  listened  to  its  waters  trickling 
through  the  intricate  vines  and  close-meshed  leaves  which 
laced  it;  listened  while  they  gurgled  through  their  pebbly 
passes  and  poured  their  quivering  crystal  over  the  grass- 
rirnmed  rocky  ledges.  I  listened  to  the  melody  thrilling  the 
green  interwoven  arches,  the  rifted  sun-flecked  domes  of 
garniture  above  me;  and  all  that  I  saw  and  heard  filled  me 
with  a  love  profound  as  my  being.  Yet  below  it,  more  per 
vading,  thrilled  the  memory  of  the  human  voices  of  those 
cherished  ones  who  even  now  made  all  the  light,  and  beauty, 
and  music  of  the  world  doubly  dear  to  me.  My  father  and 
mother,  Frederick  and  Beatrice,  seemed  to  walk  unseen  by 
my  side,  living,  loving,  and  at  home.  If  my  father  and  mother 
could  have  lived,  how  large  a  space. they  would  have  filled  in 
the  now  unfilled  world  of  my  human  love.  If  my  brother 
and  sister  could  have  existed  on,  in  mortal  form,  what 
would  they  not  have  been  to  me  now,  in  the  beautiful  expan 
sion  of  their  divinely-wedded  manhood  and  womanhood ! 
Without  lather,  mother,  brother,  sister,  or  child,  held  to  the 
earth  by  a  single  link  in  the  great  chain  of  affection  which  so 
early  began  to  draw  me  heavenward,  it  was  not  unnatural  that 
in  that  single  tie  my  bereft  heart  should  seek  satisfaction  for 
all  that  it  had  lost.  But  one  presence  haunted  me  at  Bel 
Eden  which  I  wished  to  banish,  which  I  did  banish,  only  to 
behold  it  again  at  the  least  anticipated  moment.  There  were 
spots  in  this  ground  which  seemed  pervaded  with  the  per 
sonality  of  that  one  who  once  made  so  deep  an  impres 
sion  on  my  life.  Could  I  have  believed  it  possible  that 
he  had  ever  been  here,  then  this  consciousness  would  have 
been  no  mystery.  I  knew  that  in  every  spot  where  a  soul 
has  lived  its  effluence  lingers  long  after  it  has  passed  away. 
We  enter  a  chamber  in  which  a  dear  one  left  us  for  the  spirit 
life;  years  after,  and  every  lost  sensation,  the  very  breath  of 
the  dying  one,  again  pervades  us.  From  the  mouldy  ruins 
of  exhumed  cities  the  seemingly  extinct  life  of  lost  epochs 
and  Imrk'ij  races  thrills  the  sensitive  sense  of  the  denizen  of 
to-day.  Who  dares  to  measure  the  space  which  may  be  impreg 
nated  by  a  single  spirit  ?  I  was  half  startled  at  the  subtle 


Strange  Events.  279 

acuteness  of  my  own  psychometric  sense.  I  had  never 
sought  nor  cultivated  the  soul-measuring,  soul-discerning 
faculty — the  lightning  perception,  the  piercing  intuition,  pene 
trating  to  the  finest  fibres  of  hearts  which  I  did  not  care  to 
know  or  to  analyse.  I  knew  not  whence  it  came,  this 
mysterious  inner  vision,  which  at  times  made  me  so  vividly 
cognizant  of  lives  far  separated  from  mine,  which  seemed  to 
bring  so  near  to  me  the  inmost  experience  of  souls  far  distant 
with  whom,  unconsciously,  I  had  entered  into  some  dim, 
impalpable  relationship.  The  exquisite  sensibility  of  organism 
which  made  me  conscious  of  the  most  secret  emanation  from 
the  souls  whose  atmosphere  I  breathed,  was  in  itself  a  pain. 

For  the  involuntary  radiations  which  proceed  from  every 
soul  establish  its  essential  nature  beyond  all  cavil.  Vainly  it 
attempts  to  hide  itself  in  borrowed  garb  of  words  or  actions; 
the  silence  underlying  all  is  more  significant  than  any  guise  or 
utterance  can  be.  It  is  the  very  breath  of  the  soul ;  it  sheathes 
it  like  an  atmosphere ;  and  you  breathe  it  to  feel  what  the  very 
essence  of  that  soul  is.  Your  unspoken  thought,  your  sup 
pressed  emotion,  your  secret  antagonisms,  not  only  change  the 
hue  of  your  cheek  and  vary  the  expression  of  your  eye — 
they  glance  from  you  an  invisible  emanation,  filling  all  the 
air  around  you  with  electric  revelations.  If  I  could  have 
believed  that  the  stranger  of  Les  Delices  had  ever  inhabited 
Bel  Eden,  I  should  have  been  at  no  loss  to  have  understood 
the  irrepressible  psychometrical  impression  which  I  felt  at 
times  of  the  lingering  effluence  of  his  vanished  presence. 
But  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  had  never  entered 
this  retreat.  Thus  my  ever-recurring  intuitions  were  resolved 
back  to  an  over-active  imagination  as  their  source ;  as  we  are 
ever  ready  to  say  of  our  highest  conviction  :  "  It  is  all  imagi 
nation."  I  avoided  entering  the  retreats  where  I  felt  this 
consciousness  most  vividly.  I  banished  as  far  as  possible  this 
lost  being  from  my  heart.  His  memory  might  rise  unbidden, 
but  it  was  never  welcomed,  never  cherished.  Once  he  had 
been  to  me  a  vague  and  beautiful  dream  ;  but  I  was  well 
aware  that  I  had  no  right  to  think  of  him  now.  I  was  sure 
that  it  would  be  for  my  happiness  to  banish  him  utterly  from 
my  thought. 

Strange  to  say,  in  proportion  as  the  world  praised  Niobe, 
my  heart  longed  for  the  lost  painting  of  Les  Delices.  Years 
had  parsed  since  last  I  saw  it ;  how  I  yearned  to  behold  it 
now !  The  first-born  of  my  soul,  the  child  of  purest  love,  was  not 
its  being  bought  at  the  great  price  of  human  joy  and  suffering  ? 


280  Victoire. 

Where  now  was  its  resting-place  in  the  wide  world  !  It  was 
the  work  of  a  dreamer,  and  all  the  faults  of  youth  were  in  it. 
Perhaps  the  strong  outline,  the  touch  of  conscious,  assured 
power  were  wanting.  I  did  not  know  ;  I  only  knew  that  it 
held  the  faces  of  the  beings  who  filled  my  dreams,  the  beings 
who  loved  me  before  the  fingers  of  life  had  touched  me — cold 
with  care,  and  want,  and  sorrow.  I  knew  that  the  opaline 
glory  which  hovers  in  the  eyes  of  youth,  transfiguring  all  things 
in  its  evanescent  lustre,  imparted  to  it  a  celestial  radiance.  It  did 
not  belong  to  my  present  life  ;  it  was  the  revelation  of  a  past 
existence;  it  held  the  eyes  which  once  made  all  the  glory  of 
my  world.  Why  had  it  been  snatched  from  me  so  utterly, 
BO  irrevocably  ?  At  an  early  day  Henri  made  every  effort  to 
find  its  purchaser,  but  with  no  success.  He  went  to  the  Hotel 

St. ,  only  to  learn  that  Mr.  Moncrieffe  was  not  a  resident 

of  the  city  ;  that  he  had  sailed  for  Europe  weeks  before  ;  and 
in  the  two  years  which  had  intervened  we  had  heard  nothing 
of  the  gentleman.  When  I  recollected  the  name  as  identical 
with  that  of  the  person  who  had  addressed  me  respecting 
Niobe,  my  first  impulse  was  to  write  and  ask  if  he  knew  aught 
of  my  lost  picture.  But  the  very  decided  doubt  which  Henri 
cast  upon  my  surmise  deterred  me  from  doing  so.  Probably 
I  was  very  romantic  and  foolish  in  my  fancies.  It  was  always 
best  to  be  guided  by  a  man's  judgment  rather  than  by  intui 
tions  for  which  you  could  give  no  reason  at  all.  If  Ambrose 
Moncrieffe  had  ever  seen  my  first  picture  he  would  have 
detected  a  relationship  between  it  and  Niobe.  Even  if  he 
had  not  known  the  name  of  the  artist  would  he  not  have 
discovered  that  one  individuality  asserted  itself  in  the  lines 
and  colors  of  each  ?  Would  he  not  have  mentioned  this 
picture  if  he  had  it  in  his  possession.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he 
would.  So,  with  my  oft-recurring  impulse  to  speak  of  it  to  him, 

I  said  nulling  at  all.     My  forbidden  desire  was  most  unex 
pectedly  gratified  one  day  by  the  appearance  of  another  white 
envelope  bearing  a  crested  seal,  sent  in  reply  to  my  brief  note. 

There  was  a  tremor  in  my  hand,  a  tumult,  then  a  stifling 
sensation  at  my  heart  as  I  opened  this  letter — proof  that  the 
soul  who  sent  it  moved  me  as  powerfully  as  could  any  thought 
which  it  contained.  It  was  much  shorter  than  the  former  letter 

I 1  .u-ed  by  the  same  hand.  It  contained  a  few  gracefully  express 
ed  thanks  for  my  gracious  reply.     It  stated  that  the  writer  was 
not  conscious  of  possessing   any   literary   ambition    or   any 
desire  to  become  a  critic  of  high  art  or  distressing  ambition 
of  any  sort.     He  feared  that  he  was  a  selfish  fellow,  and  liked 


Strange  Events.  281 

nothing  so  much  as  to  be  pleased.  At  least  he  knew  that  he 
was  pleased  with  all  the  great  thoughts  of  the  day,  whether 
embodied  in  form,  in  words,  or  deeds.  And  that  he  should 
be  still  more  pleased  if  he  could  enjoy  a  sincere,  spon 
taneous  interchange  of  opinion  and  criticism  with  one  equally 
interested  in  them — one  who,  in  addition  to  culture,  possessed 
a  more  divining  insight,  a  more  spiritual  intuition  of  truth  and 
beauty  than  could  possibly  belong  to  himself.  Would  Madame 
Rochelle  deem  it  an  unpardonable  intrusion  if  he  should 
occasionally  address  to  her  a  letter  concerning  some  sub 
ject  of  interest  in  the  world  of  art  or  letters  ?  Would  it 
be  too  great  a  tax  upon  her  generosity  or  time  to  ask  for  an 
occasional  reply,  when  for  so  doing  he  could  offer  her  no 
equivalent  of  pleasure  ?  Again  he  asked  pardon  for  his  outre 
mode  of  introducing  himself,  and  referred  to  Mr.  Van  Ostrand, 
a  well-known  gentleman  of  high  position,  an  intimate  acquaint 
ance  of  Henri's,  for  any  information  which  Madame  Rochelle 
or  her  friends  might  desire  concerning  his  social  standing  and 
personal  character. 

Henri  read  this  letter  through  deliberately,  and  touching 
the  end  of  my  chin  with  it,  said : 

"  How  will  you  like  aesthetic  letter-writing,  Victoire  ?" 

"  I  could  not  write  esthetic  letters  if  I  tried,"  I  answered. 
"  But  what  do  you  think  of  the  writer  of  this  ?" 

"  Think  ?  Why  I  think  he  is  a  gentleman  of  elegant  lei 
sure,  who  feels  entirely  uplifted  above  all  vulgar  ambitions ; 
who,  nevertheless,  is  burdened  with  many  positive  thoughts 
and  opinions  of  his  own  for  which  he  desires  an  exclusive 
yet  graceful  avenue  of  expression.  Doubtless  he  intends  you 
a  great  honor  when  he  elects  you  as  the  chosen  recipient  of  his 
pet  ideas.  To  judge  by  his  hand-writing,  I  should  say  that  ho 
was  a  person  of  the  finest  cultivation  ;"  and  Henri  again 
opened  the  elegant  letter  and  glanced  over  the  masouline  yet 
femininely  graceful  chirography.  , 

"  Moncrieffe  ?  Well,  now,  I  recollect  that  Van  Ostrand 
did  speak  of  a  Mr.  Moncrieife,  a  friend  of  his,  who  was  going 
to  spend  the  summer  in  town,"  he  added. 

"  What  else  did  he  say  about  him  ?" 

"  Nothing  that  I  remember.  He  spoke  of  him  casually 
in  connexion  with  something  else." 

"  Shall  I  answer  this  letter,  Henri  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Certainly  ;  it  is  entitled  to  a  reply  of  some  sort.  Inform 
him  that  if  he  chooses  to  propound  subjects  of  general  im 
portance  and  interest  for  your  observation,  you  will  reply 


282  Victoire. 

to  the  best  of  your  ability.  It  would  really  be  of  advantage  to 
you,  Victoire,  in  assisting  you  to  think  cfearly  and  to  express 
your  thoughts  with  perspicuity.  Still,  you  must  be  careful 
and  not  allow  it  to  take  too  much  time  from  your  painting  ; 
you  know  not  writing,  but  painting,  is  your  forte.  And  I 
am  sure  a  man  should  have  business  more  important  to  attend 
to  than  the  writing  of  elaborate  private  critiques  to  a  lady 
whom  he  has  never  seen.  On  the  whole,  I  think  that  you 
had  better  wait  until  I  ask  Van  Ostrand  something  more 
about  this  Mr.  Moncrieife." 

And  with  these  words  Mr.  Moncrieffe  passed  entirely  out 
of  his  mind,  not  to  enter  it  again  for  at  least  the  space  of  a 
week.  At  that  distance  from  the  time  when  he  last  spoke  of 
him,  as  we  sat  one  evening  at  our  little  tea-table  which  stood 
on  the  turf  outside  of  the  oriel  windows  of  the  dining-room, 
Henri  said :  "  Van  Ostrand  was  in  the  office  to-day,  and  I 
made  some  inquiries  respecting  that  Mr.  Moncrieffe.  He 
informed  me  that  when  he  first  knew  Moncrieffe  he  was  the 
most  gifted  and  brilliant  man  of  his  acquaintance  ;  that  he 
has  ever  been  a  man  of  the  strictest  honor ;  that,  he  possesses 
all  sorts  of  accomplishments  and  graces,  and  has  such  a  gene 
rous  and  genial  nature  that  it  is  impossible  to  know  him  and 
not  like  him.  He  says  he  has  but  one  fault,  and  that  is,  that 
though  there  never  was  a  man  of  his  years  who  had  more 
promising  political  prospects,  since  the  death  of  his  wife 
he  seems  to  have  lost  all  personal  ambition,  and  is  too  indo 
lent  or  too  indifferent  to  use  his  splendid  talents  for  any  defi 
nite  end." 

"I  am  sure  it  is  not  a  fault  to  be  affected  by  the  death 
of  his  wife.  I  couldn't  respect  a  man  who  was  not,"  I 
replied. 

14  That  is  a  woman's  view.  A  man  can  mourn  his  wife 
sincerely,  and  yet  not  give  himself  up  to  inanity.  If  he  is  in 
sorrow,  that  is  in  itself  a  sufficient  reason  why  he  should  give 
full  employment  to  his  faculties  to  keep  his  nature  from 
growing  unhealthy." 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  most  men  are  too  busy  and  in 
too  great  a  hurry  to  give  much  time  to  either  love  or  grief. 
I  am  sure  it  is  beautiful  to  find  an  exception." 

"  More  romance,"  said  Henri,  looking  amused.  "  How  the 
hard  kernel  of  truth  does  hurt  your  tender  soul,  Victoire. 
What  do  you  say  to  the  fact  that  there  are  men  in  the  world 
who  do  not  love  their  wives  very  much  while  they  live,  nor 
mourn  them  very  deeply  when  they  die  ?  To  be  sure,  they 


Strange  Events.  283 

do  not  really  want  them  to  die.  But  when  the  transient  emo 
tion  incident  to  the  funeral  is  over,  and  they  are  all  ready  to 
begin  a  new  life  and  marry  a  new  wife,  to  say  the  least  they 
are  not  very  miserable." 

"  Well,  I  think  such  men  are  monsters." 

"  Oh,  no ;  they  are  not.  They  are  only  human.  Don't 
you  know  that  if  a  woman  chooses,  she  can  make  herself  not 
only  very  tedious,  but  very  odious  ?  After  the  course  of  dis 
cipline  some  poor  fellows  go  through,  I  don't  blame  them  for 
feeling  relieved  when  it  is  ended.  Yet  I  can  understand  how 
a  wife  may  die,  and  the  husband  feel  as  if  the  light  of  the 
world  had  gone  with  her.  Here  is  a  very  clever  fellow  who, 
it  seems,  has  found  nothing  to  live  for  since  he  buried  his  love ; 
which,  after  all,  is  very  foolish.  His  trouble  does  not  relieve 
him  of  a  man's  duty  or  responsibility.  Answer  his  letters  by 
all  means,  Victoire  ;  and  in  an  impersonal,  womanly  way, 
kindle  his  ambition  and  rouse  him  to  be  a  man  again  in  the 
world.  It  may  be  graceful  for  ladies,  but  I  have  no  patience 
with  men  who  have  nothing  to  do." 

"Then  you  really  wish  me  to  answer  his  letters,  Henri?" 

"  Yes,  provided  it  does  not  take  too  much  time.  Be  sure 
and  write  simply  and  naturally,  just  as  if  you  were  talking. 
Don't  indulge  in  one  of  those  pretty  affectations  which  are 
always  tempting  women  to  be  a  little  less  or  more,  or  a  little 
different  from  their  real  selves.  Eschew  all  mere  fine  writing. 
Ornate  composition  in  a  letter  is  absurd.  Though  you  are 
writing  to  a  polished  scholar,  be  content  to  be  your  sincere, 
ungarnished  self;  if  you  attempt  to  be  more,  you  will  do 
yourself  injustice.  As  far  as  you  can,  embody  your  soul  in 
words;  be  yourself,  and  only  yourself.  Van  Ostrand  has 
really  interested  me  in  this  Mr.  Moncrieffe.  I  mean  to  call 
on  him  when  I  find  time." 

Thus  this  new,  unsought  correspondence  became  a  fact. 
Letters,  snowy- vested  messengers  of  sweet  tidings,  their  white 
palms  tilled  with  purest  benedictions,  stole  to  me  noiselessly 
acruss  the  miles.  They  were  esthetic,  philosophical,  poetical, 
religious,  with  unexpected  rays  of  humor  glancing  here  and 
there  with  a  playful,  lambent  light.  They  were  rich  in  thought 
and  expression ;  full  of  the  experiences  of  the  visible  and  of 
the  invisible  life.  Lymphatic  people  would  have  called  them 
extraordinary  ;  prosaic  people  would  have  called  them  trans 
cendental  ;  people  of  cultivated  and  gifted  intellect  would 
have  called  them  beautiful.  Had  they  been  printed  just  as 
they  were  written,  they  would  have  attracted  attention  as 


284  Victoire. 

critiques  and  essays  remarkable  for  subtleness,  vividness, 
terseness,  and  power,  which  was  increased  by  the  fact  that 
they  were  written  to  a  single  person  instead  of  a  vague  gene 
ral  public.  These  papers  (for  they  could  scarcely  be  called 
letters),  with  their  replies,  passing  between  two  persons  per 
sonally  unacquainted,  encroached  upon  the  individual  life  of 
neither.  From  their  advent  to  their  close  they  remained  pure 
utterances  of  impersonal  thought.  They  neither  invited  nor 
offered  private  confidences.  It  seemed  sufficient  to  Mr.  Mon- 
crieffe  that  there  was  a  soul  to  whom  he  could  speak  of  topics 
which  interested  him  without  intruding  upon  that  soul's  per 
sonality.  He  verified  his  former  assertion  that  "  absolute 
friendship  may  grow  out  of  J;he  veriest  abstractions."  He 
took  no  cognizance  of  me  as  a  person.  He  never  intimated  a 
desire  to  meet  me,  nor  hinted  that  such  an  event  was  possi 
ble  in  the  future. 

And  yet  it  was  the  personality  emanating  from  these  letters 
which  charmed  me.  Something  proibunder  than  all  their 
words — the  soul  below  them — moved  me  with  a  mysterious 
power.  In  the  purity  and  grace  of  the  language  lay  its  lasci- 
riation.  If  it  had  been  less  elevated,  to  me  it  would  have 
been  less  dangerous.  And  yet  it  was  not  the  words — which 
might  have  been  written  to  a  hundred  as  well  as  to  me,  it  was 
the  impalpable  effluence  which  no  words  could  explain,  per 
vading,  flowing  from  every  letter,  which  quickened  so  my 
heart.  I  knew  the  day  of  their  coming  by  the  restlessness, 
sweet  to  pain,  the  eager,  irrepressible,  expectant  longing  and 
looking  which  were  their  sure  precursors.  Then  I  knew  the 
white  dove  was  drawing  near  my  ark,  bearing  both  the  olive 
and  the  myrtle.  One  day  I  awoke  as  from  a  dream.  I  sud 
denly  awoke  to  the  utter  consciousness  of  all  that  these  let 
ters  were  to  me.  They  were  companionship,  they  were  inspi 
ration  ibr  my  thought,  aliment  for  my  soul,  a  cherished,  a 
beloved  presence.  I  knew  that  they  were  all  this,  and  the 
knowledge  frightened  me.  I  took  them  all  from  their  sacred 
drawer;  I  placed  them  in  an  envelope  with  a  few  lines  ad 
dressed  to  their  author,  thanking  him  for  the  pleasure  which 
they  afforded  me,  yet  informing  him  that  I  could  no  longer 
continue  the  correspondence.  He  might  burn  or  preserve  my 
few  poor  epistles  as  he  chose.  His  deserved  a  better  fate  ; 
they  should  enrich  many  hearts  instead  of  one.  I  had  not 
intended  to  bring  the  correspondence  to  BO  abrupt  a  close, 
but  other  duties  rendered  it  impossible  that  it  should  be  con 
tinued.  Having  indited  ami  directed  this  hurried  communi- 


Strange  Events.  285 

cation,  I  dispatched  George  Washington  Peacock  to  the  city 
with  it  immediately ;  I  would  not  allow  it  to  remain  until  the 
next  morning,  lest  I  should  persuade  myself  to  change  my 
mind,  which  I  was  certain  was  not  best.  -This  solemn  duty 
performed,  I  surrendered  myself  up  to  Thomas  a  Kempis  and 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  I  knew  that  all  of  resignation, 
was  in  the  first,  all  of  religion  in  the  latter.  But  the  holiest 
instruction  of  man,  the  sublimest  utterance  of  a  God,  failed 
to  banish  utterly  from  my  heart  a  sense  of  loss.  I  had  simply 
done  right,  and  was  ashamed  that  this  thought  did  not  make 
me  happier.  I  was  thankful  that  the  letters  were  gone.  I 
was  unwilling  to  receive  any  more — and  yet,  and  yet — there 
was  no  denying  it,  I  was  almost  miserable  over  the  fact. 
What  an  exaggerated  nature  was  mine,  which  for  such  an 
immaterial  loss  made  me  feel  that  the  light  which  marked 
the  path  of  my  spirit  was  suddenly  withdrawn  and  my 
nature  left  in  darkness.  The  task,  yesterday  so  grand  in 
promise  of  fulfilment,  to-day  seemed  promiseless.  The  new 
glory  which  had  baptized  my  being  was  suddenly  quenched  ; 
but  weariness,  satiety,  loneliness  were  old  acquaintances ;  I 
must  accept  their  daily  company  and  be  resigned,  if  not  hap 
py.  Yes,  one  thing  in  the  universe  I  must  do — I  must  do 
right. 

The  day  was  far  spent  when  I  left  my  teachers  and  went  and 
mounted  Zenaide  to  go  to  the  depot  to  meet  Henri.  Every 
afternoon  George  Peacock  rode  Pontiff  to  await  his  master. 
I  usually  accompanied  him,  telling  him  many  things  wHbich  he 
liked  to  know,  as  we  sauntered  leisurely  down  the  shady  road. 
But  I  was  in  no  mood  to  impart  wisdom  this  afternoon  ;  thus 
upon  his  return  from  the  city  I  had  sent  him  off  alone,  to 
follow  at  my  leisure.  I  made  a  necklace  for  Zenaide  of 
crimson,  golden,  and  opal  dahlias.  I  hung  it  around  her 
proudly  arching,  glossy  neck.  I  rubbed  my  cheek  against 
hers,  and  told  her  she  was  the  best  and  most  beautiful  horse 
in  all  the  world  ;  that  I  should  die  without  her.  For  all  this 
extravagant  nonsense  she  rewarded  me  with  the  loving  light 
of  her  great,  gentle,  gazelle  eyes ;  and  thus  with  the  most  per 
fect  sympathy  established  between  us,  we  went  together  down 
the  shadowy  avenue.  It  was  an  August  afternoon  ;  ineffable 
was  its.  beauty,  medicinal  its  enchantment.  I  had  scarcely 
realized  that  summer  had  come,  and  here  it  was  August.  1 
love  all  the  months  as  I  love  my  friends ;  each  for  its  own 
personality,  its  distinct  individual  charm ;  and  for  me  the 
mouth  of  August  has  a  peculiar  fascination.  It  seems  as  if 


286  Victoire. 

in  this  matchless  month  nature,  having  brought  the  year  to  its 
prime,  pauses  entranced  above  her  own  work,  saying :  "  It  is 
perfect."  August  is  to  the  year  what  the  first  hour  past 
meridian  is  to  the  day ;  the  noon's  fulness  of  splendor  is  scarce 
one  shade  abated,  yet  the  moment  breathes  forth  a  softness 
which  the  noon  had  not.  We  rest  in  the  first  glory  of  the 
afternoon,  ripe,  tender,  delicious,  ere  the  chill  of  twilight  has 
made  us  shiver,  or  a  deepening  shadow  on  the  golden  horizon 
warns  us  of  the  advancing  night.  September,  the  Ceres  of 
the  year,  fills  our  hands  with  luscious  treasures,  but  her  cheek 
is  beautiful  with  hectics ;  the  scarlet  ring  upon  her  brow  is  the 
coronal  of  death ;  I  cherish  for  her  the  sad,  regretful  affection 
which  I  feel  for  a  friend  who  is  about  to  die.  I  love  August 
as  I  love  a  perfected  soul,  who  will  stay  with  me  for  a  little 
while,  pouring  out  its  opulent  life  to  fill  up  the  scanty  measure 
of  my  own.  I  know  this  rich  soul  must  soon  pass  beyond  my 
sight ;  but  it  will  pass  in  the  full  flush  of  its  prime  ;  there  will 
be  no  token  of  decay,  no  struggle  of  dissolving  nature  to 
make  me  sorrowful.  In  the  joyance  of  the  moment  I  say  : 
"  Pour  out,  pour  out,  still  more  of  your  wine,  ripe 
heart !" 

"  'Tis  life  whereof  my  nerves  are  scant ; 
'Tis  life,  not  death,  for  which  I  pant." 

I  shall  be  for  ever  richer  for  having  partaken  of  your  fulness. 
Thus  I  yielded  to  the  sway  of  this  imperial  month  as  I  passed 
out  into  her  presence.  No  longer  the  virgin  blossoms  of  the 
spring  looked  up  from  the  turf  with  their  half-veiled  eyes. 
Even  the  amorous  tulip  and  ardent  rose  had  departed,  and 
instead  the  matron  flowers  of  the  later  summer  stood  around 
me,  stately,  sturdy,  self-conscious  in  their  pride.  The  leaves 
on  the  great  boughs  above  me  no  longer  pattered  their  tiny 
palms  in  the  ecstasy  of  newly  quickened  life ;  heavy,  glossy, 
darkly  veined,  they  drooped  in  equipoise,  or,  slowly  swaying 
to  and  fro,  their  dreamy  murmur  made  a  part  of  the  calm 
content  of  the  hour.  Beneath  this  rare  sky,  in  this  divine  air, 
it  seemed  easy  to  forget  life's  trivialities—all  the  littleness  of 
human  care,  all  the  wearing  selfishness  of  self,  all  the  assertion 
of  personal  need,  which  impels  every  poor  heart  to  make 
itself  the  centre  of  a  world.  But  it  is  ordained  that  we  shall 
never  catch  more  than  a  glimpse  of  heaven  on  this  side  of  the 
grave.  And  as  I  passed  out  from  the  blessing  of  the  patriarchal 
trees  iuto  the  common  air,  and  saw  just  before  me  the  stark 


Strange  Events.  287 

roof  of  an  unpoetical  railroad  depot,  I  fell  from  my  lofty 
impersonal  contemplation  of  the  universal,  to  the  low  level, 
the  narrow  life  of  one  little  human  creature. 

Why  should  the  sight  of  that  grizzly  station  perturb  me 
now,  when  I  beheld  the  same  material  object  every  day  ? 
Why  should  I  feel  that  anxious  fluttering  about  my  heart  at 
the  thought  of  meeting  my  husband,  when  I  came  here  to 
meet  him  every  evening  ?  I  was  not  afraid  that  he  would 
meet  me  with  a  frown.  Henri  Rochelle  never  frowned,  at 
least  on  me.  I  did  not  anticipate  a  lecture  ;  for  although  he 
delivered  many  scientific  lectures,  he  did  not  lecture  his  wife. 
Sometimes  I  wished  that  he  would.  I  fancied  that  a  sound 
orthodox,  conjugal  scolding  for  one  or  more  of  my  nume 
rous  faults  would  be  preferable  to  an  obliviousness  of  my 
existence.  For  the  last  few  weeks  I  had  heard  of  nothing 
but  "  medical  councils"  and  consultations ;  of  "  dangerous 
cases"  and  "  surgical  operations."  Precious  human  lives,  the 
happiness  of  human  homes  and  hearts,  hung  suspended  on  his 
skill.  He  was  equal  to  the  trust ;  he  was  worthy  of  it,  for  he 
thought  of  nothing  else.  He  was  busy  in  the  city,  or  he  was 
shut  in  his  study,  or  he  rode  by  my  side,  or  sat  at  the  table, 
perfectly  pre-occupied  with  the  momentous  issues  which  absorb 
ed  his  mind.  I  thought  of  their  importance,  and  uttered  no 
complaint.  What  if  I  had  to  cut  off  people's  limbs,  and  pre 
scribe  for  their  miserable  stomachs,  and  keep  them  from  dying 
in  spite  of  all  their  persistent  abuse  of  their  functions  ?  I 
probably  should  not  be  wise  and  silent,  but  cross  and  utterly 
overwhelmed  with  my  tremendous  task.  Henri  Rochelle  was 
perfectly  excusable  for  forgetting  for  the  present  that  he  had 
a  wife,  when  he  had  so  much  of  greater  importance  to  think 
of.  She  was  sure  that  as  soon  as  he  had  leisure  he  would  be 
as  kind  and  thoughtful  of  her  as  ever.  She  only  felt  that  she 
was  very  selfish  not  to  be  absorbed  as  he  was  in  doing  good. 
He  had  manifested  a  cognizance  of  my  being  the  day  before, 
by  asking  me  to  visit  some  poor  patients  of  his  in  town,  and 
curry  to  them  articles  necessary  to  their  comfort,  for  which 
privilege  I  was  exceedingly  grateful,  it  was  such  an  exquisite 
pleasure  to  feel  that  I  was  of  any  service  to  him  or  to  the 
needy.  If  he  thought  of  me  at  all  during  those  days  of  exces 
sive  care,  it  was  only  to  conclude  that  I  was  absorbed  in  art 
and  my  beautiful  home  ;  that  my  little  world  was  complete  in 
its  fulness  of  blessing.  He  did  not  give  me  the  credit  of 
being  half  as  foolish  as  I  was.  "  Why  is  laid  upon  me  the 
burden  of  so  many  wants  ?  Why  must  I  suffer  the  penalties 


288  Victoire. 

of  an  unsatisfied  nature,  while  he  is  so  calmly  poised,  so  'wise, 
so  satisfied,  so  symmetrically  developed,  so  happy  in  being  and 
doing  good?"  I  said  half  bitterly  as  I  drew  near  the  railroad 
station,  with  the  sickening  anxiety  still  creeping  through  my 
'heart.  It  was  only  the  womanish  anxiety  lest  Henri  should 
be  as  silent  and  absorbed  as  usual.  I  wanted  company  this 
evening.  I  wanted  to  forget  those  letters. 

Presently  the  cars  came  shrieking  up ;  the  great  engine, 
with  its  burning,  cyclopean  eye,  reminding  me  as  forcibly  as 
ever  of  the  dear  old  devil. 

In  a  moment  more  proud  Pontiff  was  prancing,  wheeling, 
arching  his  lustrous  coal-black  neck  as  demonstrations  of 
delight  at  the  presence  of  his  master.  Henri  sprang  into 
the  saddle,  and  we  cantered  away  to  the  elm  road.  We  came 
into  its  shadow  at  a  quiet  pace,  and  had  scarcely  entered  it 
when  Pontiff  with  a  graceful  curve  wheeled  close  to  the  side 
of  rny  gentle  Zenaide  ;  his  tall  rider,  like  a  gallant  knight,  bent 
down  .and  kissed  the  forehead  of  Victoire. 

"  Ma  bonne,  ma  belle"  he  said,  smiling,  his  clear  eyes  over 
flowing  with  a  lambent  light.  "  Six  patients,  serious  cases, 
fairly  off  my  hands  to-day.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  right  to  a 
little  leisure.  Let  me  see ;  it  is  a  week,  is  it  not,  since  I 
talked  much  ?" 

"A  week!  Why,  Henri,  it  is  certainly  three  since  you 
have  uttered  a  word  more  than  necessity  compelled  you  to 
speak." 

"  Indeed  !  But  you  have  been  enjoying  yourself  during 
all  that  time ;  haven't  you  ?  How  does  the  new  picture 
progress  ?" 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  tell,  when  there  is  no  one  to  look  at  it  and" 
tell  me  how  I  am  getting  along !" 

"You  should  have  an  opinion  of  your  works,  independent 
of  other  people's  judgment.  But  I'll  go  up  to  your  bird's 
nest  after  tea  and  tell  you  what  I  think  of  it.  "It  really  seems 
very  pleasant  to  feel  that  I  have  a  right  to  give  a  whole 


"  When  I  have  time  to  think  about  it,  I  find  that  I  am  as 
much  in  love  with  you  as  ever,"  he  said,  slowly,  looking 
down  into  my  face  with  a  long,  lingering  smile,  beautiful  as 
rare. 

Beneath  the  Alps  there  are  sheltered  valleys,  and  there  are 


Strange  Events.  289 

no  lovelier  in  all  the  world.  There  is  no  music  sweeter  than 
the  tinkling  of  the  tiny  bells  on  the  neck  of  their  June ;  nothing 
softer  than  their  verdure ;  nothing  more  fragrant  than  their 
thyme  ;  nothing  more  spontaneous  than  their  flowers,  spring 
ing  under  the  everlasting  snow.  Thus,  through  knowing  him, 
I  found  that  there  was  a  sunny  summer  valley  far  below  the 
heights  of  Henri  Rochelle's  nature.  All  the  more  enticing  it 
was  from  the  contrast  with  the  glaciers  which  made  winter 
above  it.  It  was  full  of  dew,  and  sunshine,  and  quiet  blooms ; 
full  of  all  pleasant  summer  sounds.  Whenever  I  looked  down 
into  this  valley  a  whole  heaven  of  possible  happiness  opened 
before  me.  But  just  as  I  fancied  myself  entering  it  to  go  out 
no  more  for  ever,  the  Alpine  brain  would  drop  its  avalanche 
of  business,  and  bury  all  this  fair  valley  from  my  sight. 
Wearier  were  the  dull,  grey  days  which  came  after,  for  the 
brief  gleam  which  I  caught  of  the  buried  valley.  It  did  not 
take  so  much  after  all  to  make  me  happy.  I  had  forgotten  the 
letters.  I  did  not  want  more  joy  than  this  moment  by  his  side 
gave  me. 

"  Who  do  you  think  called  on  me  this  afternoon  ?"  asked 
Henri,  in  an  arch  tone. 

"  Some  one  whom  I  know  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Morna  ?" 

"  No.  Who  but  your  friend  Mr.  Moncrieffe.  You  know 
him  pretty  well,  do  you  not,  although  you  have  not  seen  him  ?" 

How  I  started  at  that  name. 

"  Why  in  the  Avorld  did  you  send  back  his  letters  this 
morning,  telling  him  that  your  duties  interfered  with  the 
continuance  of  the  correspondence  ?  I  laughed  at  that  freak. 
I  was  not  aware  before  that  my  wife  was  so  heavily  oppressed 
with  duties  that  she  could  not  attend  to  a  much  smaller  num 
ber  of  correspondents  than  women  usually  have.  What  put 
that  notion  into  your  head,  Victoire  ?" 

"  Why,  did  you  not  tell  me  not  to  allow  it  to  take  too  much 
of  my  time  ?  I  found  that  it  did  take  too  much  time,  and  too 
much  thought,  also.  It  seemed  to  me  best  to  discontinue  it 
immediately." 

"  Rather  more  prompt  than  graceful,  Victoire.  You  are 
not  usually  so  brusque.  However,  Mr.  Moncrieffe  has  made 
me  the  bearer  of  his  thanks  and  regrets ;  his  thanks  for  the 
honor  which  you  have  done  him,  his  regrets  that  your  kind 
ness  in  his  behalf  has  incommoded  yourself.  He  is  an 
enthusiast  over  your  Niobe — would  like  to  purchase  it  ?" 

13 


2QO 


Victoire. 


"  How  did  lie  happen  to  call  on  you,  Henri  ?" 

"  He  called  with  Mr.  Van  Ostrand,  who  promised  to  intro 
duce  him  some  time  ago." 

"Did  you  like  him?" 

"  Very  much.  Better  than  I  usually  like  persons  at  first 
sight.  He  is  all,  and  more,  than  Van  Ostrand  represented 
him  to  be.  I  am  sorry  that  he  is  going  away  ;  I  invited  him 
to  visit  us  when  he  returns  from  the  South.  But  I  have 
something  very  odd  to  tell  you.  Odd  enough,  I  think,  to 
satisfy  your  romance-loving  ears.  It  was  Mr.  Moncrieffe  who 
built  Bel  Eden !" 

"  Built  Bel  Eden  !"  I  said,  slowly  after  him. 

"  Yes,  he  it  was  who  built  Bel  Eden,  before  the  death  of 
his  young  wife." 

"  Did  he  know  that  his  letters  to  me  came  to  Bel  Eden  ?" 

"  No,  because  they  were  sent  to  onr  New  York  address." 

"  Didn't  he  remember  that  you  had  bought  Bel  Eden  ?" 

"  He  knew  nothing  about  it  until  Mr.  Van  Ostrand  told  him 
a  few  days  since." 

"  Why,  how  could  that  happen  ?" 

"  Just  a?  other  things  happen.  I  purchased  Bel  Eden  of 
Mr.  Moncrieffe's  agent,  not  of  himself.  As  long  as  he  received 
the  money  he  did  not  trouble  himself  about  the  name  or  the 
person." 

"  I  agree  with  Mrs  Peacock,"  I  said,  "  that  things  what 
happens  are  queerer  nor  all  the  novels." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  Bel  Eden  gate. 


AMBROSE   MONCRIKFFK 

It  was  October  now.  It  dawned  a  golden  and  azure  day — 
as  lustrous  a  day  as  ever  dropped  through  the  fingers  of  Time 
to  enrich  the  life  of  mortals.  It  was  one  of  those  celestial 
days  when  the  year's  summer  steals  back  from  its  thither 
march  to  smile  once  more  on  the  world  ere  she  leaves  it  for 
ever.  The  trees  stood  bare,  save  here  and  there  a  solitary 
leaf  quivered  on  some  tremulous  spray.  In  and  out  through 
the  naked  branches  stole  the  odorous  south  wind,  with  a 
pleasant  sound  like  the  rustle  of  silken  garments.  It  stirred 
the  drifts  of  crimson  and  yellow  leaves  which  nestled  together 
in  the  broad  walks,  in  the  hollows  of  the  trees,  and  the  dimples 
of  the  bills.  A  few  untimely  flowers,  which  the  loving  sun 


Ambrose  Moncrieffe.  291 

had  wooed  into  tardy  life,  stood  like  lonely  watchers  amid 
the  frost-scathed  parterres,  sole  relics  of  their  vanished 
splendor.  A  few  scarlet  asters,  with  here  and  there  a  mourn 
ful  dahlia,  looked  down  from  their  blackened  stalks  upon  the 
dead  forms  of  their  beautiful  race,  the  sisterhood  of  summer 
flowers  who  died  with  the  summer  weather.  The  squirrels 
leaping  from  bough  to  bough  with  quick  vibration,  rustling 
the  fallen  leaves  as  they  ran  over  them  and  peered  through 
them ;  the  patter  of  falling  nuts,  the  plaining  of  doves  in 
their  lofty  cotes,  the  trill  of  the  cricket,  the  fall  and  flow  of 
waters,  made  the  symphony  of  the  hour.  Faint  odors  stole 
out  from  the  sun-warmed  grass,  from  beds  of  russet  clover, 
till  the  atmosphere  was  full  of  perfume  sweet  enough  to  have 
fallen  from  the  censers  of  the  angels.  A  veil  of  amber  haze 
hung  over  the  face  of  the  sun.  The  world  stood  transfigured 
in  golden  light,  and  the  serenity  of  the  hour  seemed  to  fore 
shadow  the  serenity  of  Paradise. 

Strange  it  is  that  such  halcyon  days  should  bring  us  the 
least  of  rest.  There  is  a  soul  in  the  day  which  touches  the 
soul  within  us,  saying :  "Thou  art  a  prisoner."  Then  more 
than  ever  we  feel  the  chafing  of  our  chains,  and  beat  our  wings 
against  our  prison  bars  in  wild  unrest.  Vain  and  vague  are 
the  longings  which  possess  us  for  knowledge,  joy,  love — deeper, 
higher,  purer  than  we  have  ever  found.  In  all  that  we  see 
we  feel  that  there  is  a  deeper  significance  than  we  can  under 
stand.  We  are  baffled.  VVe  long  to  find  the  life  within  life. 
It  is  the  Immortal  restless  within  us — the  soul  yearning 
towards  the  infinite  soul  from  whence  it  came. 

I  gathered  the  last  flowers  to  save  them  from  the  frost 
which  I  knew  would  fall  that  night  from  the  "  clear,  cold 
heaven."  Mingling  them  with  fragrant  geraniums  from  the 
conservatory,  I  filled  the  alabaster  vases  in  the  parlors.  I  re 
arranged  the  folds  of  every  curtain ;  I  placed  and  replaced 
vases,  statuettes,  and  pictures  ;  I  could  not  have  given  to  the 
rooms  a  more  hai'monious  arrangement,  and  at  last  stood  to 
behold  the  effect.  The  massive  curtains  of  crimson  velvet 
looped  from  drapery  of  gorgeous  lace,  the  paintings,  the 
blossom-tinted  walls,  the  calm-faced  statues,  the  sculptured 
vases  with  their  living  flowers,  the  carpet  with  its  deep-glow 
ing  hues,  the  rare  couches  breathing  luxury  and  repose,  the 
soft  tender  light  pervading  every  object — all  were  parts  of  a 
beautiful  picture. 

In  honor  of  that  untimely  summer  day  I  had  arrayed  my 
self  in  white ;  the  only  remainder  of  the  season  was  the 


292 


Victoire. 


crimson  scarf  which  I  wore  about  my  snoulders.  Having 
completed  my  tasks,  I  went  out  into  the  garden,  directing  my 
steps  towards  the  park  ;  it  was  sacrilege  to  spend  such  a  day 
in  the  house;  besides,  its  rapt  air  had  pervaded  me  with  a 
strange  restlessness  which  made  quiet  impossible.  I  walked 
through  the  fallen  leaves  till  I  came  to  a  flight  of  steps  lead 
ing  down  the  ravine.  I  descended  until  I  reached  the  bridge 
which  spanned  the  brook,  a  favorite  haunt,  yet  I  rarely  visited 
it.  I  leaned  over  the  rude  balustrade  and  looked  down  into 
the  sunken  stream,  now  nearly  choked  with  leaves -fallen  from 
the  overhanging  trees.  What  ailed  me?  There  had  been 
preparation  in  my  movements.  There  was  a  tremor  in  my 
frame,  half  pleasure,  half  pain,  half  expectation,  half  dread, 
such  as  fills  us  on  the  eve  of  the  approach  of  an  illustrious 
stranger.  Some  one  was  coming,  yet  no  one  had  been 
announced.  Some  one  was  coming !  yet,  what  of  that  ? 
m  my  strangers  visited  Bel  Eden.  Some  one  is  coming  !  yet 
who  can  it  be  to  give  me  this  throbbing  heart  ?  I  asked, 
laughing,  yet  ashamed  of  my  own  folly.  The  water  sing 
ing  through  the  leaves  mesmerized  me  into  quiet,  from 
which  I  was  aroused  by  Kate's  heavy  tread  ancl  asthmatic 
breath  : 

"  'Dade,  here's  a  card  for  ye,  an'  as  fine  a  lookin'  gintleman 
behind  it  as  iver  ye  see,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  came  panting 
down  the  steps. 

I  took  the  card  from  her  hand  and  read  :  "  Ambrose  Mon 
crieffe." 

I  pressed  my  hand  upon  my  heart,  in  whose  one  convulsive 
leap  there  was  more  terror  than  pleasure.  Yet  what  was  there 
to  be  so  moved  about  ?  Only  a  gentleman  in  the  parlor. 
Many  gentlemen  had  sat  in  the  parlor  before,  and  stupid 
enough  had  I  found  them — about  as  interesting  as  so  many 
stones.  Mr.  Moncrieffe  might  be  equally  entertaining. 

Thus  hushing  my  heart,  I  ascended  the  stairs  from  the 
ravine  to  the  lull  top.  Under  the  trees,  through  the  leaves, 
again  to  the  garden,  to  the  house.  I  ascended  the  steps  of  the 
piazza  and  stood  within  the  drapery  of  the  open  window.  A 
man  with  folded  arms  stood  looking  at  a  copy  of  Niobe.  He 
turned,  and  I  stood  eye  to  eye  with.  Ambrose  Moncrieffe,  the 
>ti-.-inger  of  Les  Delices. 

"  Stranger"  I  called  him  ;  there  could  be  no  greater  mis 
nomer.  That  moment  I  felt  as  if  I  had  known  him  all  my 
life,  :md  from  the  deep  eyes  which  were  fixed  upon  me  I  felt 
that  tew  of  the  secrets  of  my  heart  could  be  hid.  We  stood 


Ambrose  MoncriefFe.  293 

for  a  moment  and  looked  at  each  other,  and  in  that  look  the 
dreams  of  two  lives  were  fused  into  one. 

"  I  have  been  searching  for  you  a  long  time,"  he  said,  qui 
etly,  extending  his  hand  and  leading  me  to  a  seat.  "  I  have 
not  been  so  much  of  a  dreamer  as  I  feared,"  he  added.  "  Now 
I  know  to  be  true  what  I  have  long  believed,  that  soul  may 
recognise  soul  even  before  they  meet  in  bodily  form;  that 
souls  separated  by  a  thousand  barriers  yet  act  and  react 
upon  each  other ;  that  beings  who  seem  far  distant  from  us 
sometimes  exert  a  deeper  influence*  over  our  lives  than 
the  companions  who  walked  by  our  side.  You  remember 
me !" 

Remember  him  ?  As  he  asked  the  question  I  felt  that  we 
had  never  been  divided";  it  was  the  very  face,  the  very  voice 
which  through  all  those  years  I  had  scarcely  ceased  for  a 
moment  to  see  and  hear.  Having  pervaded  my  being  once, 
they  had  never  left  it.  When  I  feared  that  it  was  a  dream,  it 
was  the  pulsations  of  a  warm,  living,  human  heart  which  I  had 
felt  and  responded  to.  And  he  had  remembered  me.  I 
had  never  dreamed,  never  hoped  for  such  a  remembrance. 
Yet  how  natural  it  all  seemed,  as  if  it  never  could  have  been 
any  different ;  as  if  we  had  always  sustained  the  same  rela 
tionship  to  each  other  which  we  held  now ;  as  if  there  was 
no  dream  about  it  save  the  long  separation.  Again  I  looked 
into  the  face  which  looked  down  into  mine.  That  face  was 
very  quiet,  yet  a  deep  pallor  swept  from  the  dark  hair  to  the 
darker  beard.  This  face  had  the  ever-varying  eyes  which  I 
love — eyes  which  can  scintillate  the  keenest  lightnings,  or 
grow  tender  and  dewy  as  a  little  child's. 

"Your  eyes  are  full  of  inquiry,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  Yes,  I  would  like  to  know  everything  about  you ;  you 
have  been  a  vision  long  enough." 

"  Everything,  I  fear,  will  be  very  tiresome ;  yet  I  can  tell 
you." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  I  drew  back  into  the  cushions 
of  my  chair  to  listen  and  to  look.  To  look !  Could  I  look 
enough  at  this  face  ?  The  very  face,  the  planetary  eyes  which 
through  so  many  years  had  haunted  me  unbidden.  This  face 
which  I  had  seen  but  once  before,  yet  which  had  remained 
with  me  always. 

I  felt  my  eye-lids  droop  beneath  the  deep  half-mournful 
gaze  which  was  bent  upon  me.  I  felt  my  heart  still  tremble 
to  the  music  of  that  voice.  Yet  while  I  looked  and  listened, 
I  seemed  to  be  in  a  vision  no  less  now  than  then. 


294 


Victoire. 


Thus  we  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence,  when  I  asked 
again : 

«  Will  you  tell  me  all  ?" 

"To  tell  you  all,"  he  answered,  "  I  should  have  to  tell  yon 
my  life,  and  you  know  when  one  tells  their  own  story  they 
are  always  tedious." 

"  You  will  not  be  tedious  to  me  if  you  tell  me  the  whole 
story  of  your  life.  I  shall  hardly  be  satisfied  with  less,"  t 
answered,  retreating  still  further  into  the  cushions  and  half 
closing  my  eyes  while  he  began  : 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  of  Southern  birth.  I 
was  born  in  Virginia.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  little 
boy,  and  I  was  hardly  twenty-one  when  I  was  called  to  the 
death-bed  of  my  father.  This  was  a  terrible  stroke  to  me, 
for,  as  I  was  an  only  child  and  he  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life, 
he  had  been  to  me  both  brother  and  father.  I  had  just  com 
pleted  my  studies  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  was  full  of 
hopes  and  projects,  every  one  of  which  he  was  to  share, 
when  every  brilliant  prospect  seemed  cut  off  by  his  death.  I 
had  a  cousin  six  years  younger  than  myself,  the  only  remain 
ing  child  o.f  my  father's  only  sister,  and  she,  with  me,  was  the 
heir  to  my  paternal  grandfather's  estate.  She  was  an  orphan, 
and  shared  with  me  my  father's  affections.  We  had  grown 
up  from  childhood  together,  and  I  loved  her  as  a  sister.  In 
my  father's  last  conversation  he  revealed  a  plan  concerning 
my  cousin  Lila  and  myself  which  he  said  he  had  cherished  for 
years.  Had  he  lived,  he  should  have  trusted  to  time  to  have 
wrought  its  fulfilment ;  now  he  trusted  it  to  my  filial  love 
and  obedience.  He  wished  me  to  marry  my  cousin  Lila.  She 
was  dear  to  him  as  a  daughter;  he  wished  to  feel  that  her 
future  was  provided  for  and  the  estate  preserved  in  the  fami 
ly.  It  had  belonged  to  the  Moncrieffes  for  more  than  a 
hundred  years,  and  he  could  not  bear  to*have  it  divided  with 
a  stranger.  lie  did  not  wish  the  marriage  to  take  place 
immediately.  Lila  was  too  young,  and  I  had  not  seen  enough 
of  the  world.  He  wished  me  to  spend  the  two  next  years 
at  the  University  of  Heidelberg,  two  more  in  foreign  travel, 
and  then  return  for  my  bride.  In  the  meantime  Lila  was  to 
remain  closely  immured  in  a  girls'  boarding-school.  In  all 
my  lite  I  had  never  disobeyed  my  father.  I  could  not 
do  it  now.  It  was  no  time  to  express  individual  wishes,  if  I 
had  any,  which  I  did  not.  I  only  knew  that  I  was  listening 
to  my  father's  dying  request,  and'  that  I  wi>hed  to  fulfil  it, 
and  that  I  liked  Lila  better  than  any  otfier  little  girl  that  I 


Ambrose  Moncrieffe.  295 

knew.  Placing  my  hand  within  his,  already  stiffening  in 
death,  I  solemnly  promised  to  obey  his  dying  wishes  in  every 
respect.  After  his  obsequies,  after  I  had  seen  my  father  laid 
upon  a  stone  shelf  in  the  great  cold  vault  of  the  MoncrieffVs 
I  took  my  little  cousin — my  incipient  wife — to  the  fashionable 
school  designated  by  my  father  in  which  she  was  to  be  manu 
factured  into  the  accomplished  young  lady.  Very  soon  after 
I  sailed  for  Europe,  and  the  next  two  years  were  spent  at 
Heidelberg.  I  believe  that  the  roistering  German  students 
called  me  '  a  good  fellow,'  although  I  never  succeeded  in  turn 
ing  myself  into  a  beer-barrel,  and  never  fought  a  duel  with 
small  swords. 

"  All  men  have  their  poetic  age ;  some  when  they  are 
boys,  and  some  later,  much  later  in  life;  men  who  never 
dreamed  for  a  moment  that  existence  could  write  itself  in 
anything  for  them  but  tame  prose  to  the  end,  suddenly  find 
it  breaking  into  melodious  rhythm.  Life  merges  into  a  poem 
unawares,  one  no  less  sweet  because  measured  by  heart-throbs 
instead  of  rhyme.  My  poetic  life  began  at  Heidelberg.  You 
remember  how  Bulwer  introduces  this  loveliest  of  German 
towns  in  his  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.  '  In  the  haunted  valley 
of  the  Neckar,  the  most  crystal  of  rivers,  stands  the  town  of 
Heidelberg  ?'  Well,  it  was  a  '  haunted'  valley  to  me  ;  here  I 
first  became  pervaded  with  the  love  and  sense  of  beauty.  I 
was  steeped  in  that  divine  indolence  which  asks  for  no  other 
heaven  than  to  be  left  alone  to  drink  the  wine  of  its  own 
thought.  Hour  after  hour  used  to  pass  and  leave  me  stretch 
ed  in  the  afternoon  summer  sun  under  the  lightning-smitten 
arches  of  the  castle  of  Charlemagne.  Yes,  I  wasted  hours, 
as  all  sensible  people  will  say,  doing  nothing  in  the  world  but 
gazing  down  into  the  antique  streets  of  the  town  upon  the 
spacious  plain,  following  the  white  sails  upon  the  Neckar 
until  they  reached  the  farther  sky.  And  I  devoted  more 
time  still  to  lying  beneath  the  mouldering  walls ;  pacing 
the  feudal  ramparts,  gazing  at  the  architecture  of  many 
ages  blended  into  one  stupendous  ruin.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  had  the  opportunity  to  meditate  over  the  relics 
of  discrowned  empire  and  buried  epochs.  The  grandeur  of 
their  past  compared  with  the  melancholy  majesty  of  their  pre 
sent  both  oppressed  arid  appalled  me,  when  I  allowed  myself 
to  meditate  upon  their  history  as  the  symbol  of  all  human 
power  and  magnificence — which  was  not  very  often.  I  was 
too  young  to  be  melancholy,  too  lazy  to  be  profound. 

"  Well,  when  I  left  Heidelberg  I  followed  in  the  track  of  com- 


296  Victoire. 

mon  tourists.  I  sauntered  about  Rome,  stood  in  the  palace  of 
the  Caesars,  tired  myself  to  the  verge  of  death  roaming  umi<l 
the  dreary  splendors  of  the  Vatican  ;  caught  a  shocking  cold  in 
the  Catacombs,  and  drank  in  enough  malaria  on  the  Campagna 
to  keep  me  well  saturated  with  poison  for  two  months,  during 
which  time  I  enjoyed  the  variety  of  lying  in  an  old  Roman 
palace  prostrate  with  fever.  My  first  exploit  on  recovering 
was  to  scale  Mount  Vesuvius,  lose  one  of  my  boots  in  the 
crater,  and  melt  the  sole  of  the  other  in  the  burning  core  of 
this  eruptive  mount.  After  I  recovered  from  the  effect  of  this 
scorching  I  sailed  for  Greece,  and  of  course  was  disgusted 
because  I  found  '  living  Greece  no  more.'  Then  I  floated 
down  the  Nile.  Wondrous  was  that  Nile-life  with  its  mono 
tonous  days  and  constellated  nights,  when  the  planets  hung 
low  in  the  silence  above  me,  great  scintillant  globes  of  flame  ; 
when  the  days  and  nights  blended  in  an  endless  dream,  and 
the  vast  world  with  its  toiling  generations  seemed  a  far-off, 
dimly  remembered  phantom ;  and  yet  I  was  fleeced  so  fero 
ciously  by  the  i-ascally  Arabs,  that  at  last  I  was  thankful  to 
get  back  to  noise  and  civilization. 

"Then  I  resolved  to  leave  the  highways  of  travel  and  to 
wander  about  in  the  world's  demesne  wherever  circumstances 
or  fancy  led  me.  Thus  I  made  my  way  through  the  most 
inaccessible  portions  of  Switzerland ;  travelled  through  the 
most  glorious  portions  of  Spain  on  a  mule's  back,  aad  at  last 
found  myself  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  in  a  round-about 
way  drawing  near  to  the  Atlantic  coast. 

"  I  was  charmed  with  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  and  wandered 
down  it  leisurely  enough.  You  never  can  forget  the  magni 
ficence  of  that  evening  when  I  first  caught  sight  of  your 
home.  I  had  seen  many  ivy-grown  castles,  many  princely 
palaces  on  my  way  thither,  but  had  seen  nothing  which  had 
so  impressed  me  with  picturesque  home  beauty.  The  moun 
tains,  the  Rhone,  the  firs,  formed  such  a  contrast  to  the  bright 
little  chateau  with  its  red  turret — with  the  warm  repose  of 
tin.:  grounds,  the  fountains,  the  statues  with  their  white  faces, 
and  the  wild  cascade  leaping  down  the  jagged  rocks.  The 
crystal  jets  of  water  dancing  in  the  sun  were  tempting,  almost 
mocking,  to  a  tired  traveller,  and  I  resolved  to  have  a  drink  of 
the  nectar.  I  left  my  horse  in  charge  of  the  servant  who 
accompanied  me,  and  entered  the  narrow  footpath  running 
along  the  brook-side  to  the  cascade  at  the  foot  of  the  moun 
tain.  As  I  drew  nearer  I  caught  the  murmur  of  a  voice,  and 
in  a  moment  more  my  heart  thrilled  strangely  as  the  words  of 


Ambrose  Moncrieffe.  297 

my  own  language  reached  my  ear.  I  had  not  heard  it  for 
months;  and  now  to  hear  it  so  unexpectedly,  so  strangely,  in 
this  remote  spot,  affected  me  like  a  sudden  spell,  which  drew 
me  on  whether  I  would  or  not.  The  heavy  vines  hid  the 
speaker  from  sight  until  I  came  to  the  end  of  the  veranda, 
when  I  saw  what  was  to  me  at  that  moment  a  wonderful 
scene.  Upon  a  couch  reclined  a  young  and  apparently  dying 
man,  whose  countenance  seemed  to  wear  already  the  light  of  a 
beatified  spirit ;  by  his  side  sat  a  young  girl  reading  the  Holy 
Scripture,  and  these  were  the  first  words  which  I  heard  with 
sufficient  distinctness  to  understand : — 

" '  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth  and  that  He  shall  stand 
at  the  latter  day  upon  the  earth ;  and  though  after  my  skin, 
worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God. 
Mine  eyes  shall  behold  Him,  and  not  another.' 

"  The  sound  of  my  own  language  in  a  strange  land  was  inex 
pressibly  sweet.  I  leaned  against  a  pillar  in  the  shadow  of  the 
vines  and  listened.  My  whole  being  thrilled  while  I  hearkened 
to  those  words.  But  if  the  language  moved  me,  there  was  a 
tone  in  the  girlish  voice,  in  its  tremulous  pathos,  in  its  sup 
pressed  yet  outgushing  sorrow,  which  moved  me  more.  You 
remember  that  wonderful  sunset ;  the  glory  around  God's 
throne  seemed  falling  to  earth.  You  saw  how  it  shone 
around  your  brother's  brow ;  you  can  never  know  how  it 
hovered  about  your  own.  I  saw  his  uplifted  eyes,  his  uplifted 
hands  ;  heard  his  last  words ;  saw  you  drop  your  book,  saw 
you  clasp  him  in  your  arms,  and  cry  wildly  for  water.  Then 
I  started  for  the  first  time ;  before  I  would  have  deemed  an 
intrusion  sacrilegious.  You  remember  that  I  gave  you  water  ; 
you  bathed  his  brow ;  in  the  most  imploring  tones  you  besought 
him  to  live,  to  live  a  little  longer  for  your  sake.  You  still 
wildly  clung  to  him,  when  I  came  to  the  aid  of  the  terrified 
servant,  and  tried  to  take  your  dead  idol  from  your  arms. 
As  you  lifted  to  mine  your  imploring  eyes,  pleading  so  pite- 
ously  that  I  should  not  take  away  your  brother,  I  felt  all  my 
soul  pervaded  with  a  new  emotion,  the  first  great  love  of  man 
for  woman,  of  which  all  after  loves  are  only  counterfeits. 

"  You  seemed  dearer  to  me  that  moment  than  any  object  upon 
earth.  I  felt  like  folding  you  to  my  heart  and  holding  you 
there  for  ever.  But  you  yielded,  even  while  you  subdued  me. 
I  never  shall  forget  how  like  a  lamb  I  led  you  away  from  your 
brother,  and  delivered  you  into  the  keeping  of  your  nurse.  I 
composed  your  brother's  limbs ;  I  closed  his  eyes  ;  I  dropped 

13* 


298  Victoire. 

a  tear  on  his  brow,  not  for  him  but  for  you.  I  took  in  your 
face  in  one  long,  lingering  look  as  you  lay  almost  lifeless  in 
the  arms  of  your  nurse,  and  then  retraced  my  steps  do\vn 
the  narrow  path.  I  mounted  my  horse  und  went  on  my 
journey.  I  have  cursed  myself  more  for  that  act  than  for 
any  other  of  my  life.  It  was  the  one  which  decided  my  fate  ; 
it  was  fate.  I  had  an  appointment  to  meet  the  next  day  at 
Nismes,  a  Heidelberg  friend,  who  was  to  accompany  me  to 
Paris,  and  from  thence  go  with  me  to  America.  At  Nismes  I 
expected  to  find  letters  awaiting  me  from  Lila.  It  was  Lila, 
the  thought  of  the  solemn  vow  made  to  my  dying  father, 
which  impelled  me  to  go  on.  The  moon  rose  full  above  the 
mountains,  and  scattered  over  river,  road,  and  forest,  thousands 
of  golden  auroras.  She  made  another  day  softer,  lovelier, 
than  the  one  which  had  departed.  I  thought  only  of  you, 
saw  only  you.  I  heard  no  voice,  but  felt  a  hand  upon 
my  heart  which  drew  me  back ;  and  yet  I  went  on.  More 
than  once  I  came  to  a  dead  pause ;  I  drew  the  bridle  and 
turned  my  horse's  head,  and  yet  I  icent  on.  '  It  would  be 
harder  for  me  to  go  to-morrow ;  besides,  what  madness !'  I 
said.  I  saw  the  little  face  of  Lila ;  I  remembered  my  vow, 
and  still  went  on.  At  midnight  I  halted  at  a  little  inn,  and 
in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  reached  Nismes  in  a  more 
miserable  state  of  mind  than  I  had  ever  found  myself  before. 
I  brought  with  me  a  new  memory,  a  new  joy,  a  new  pain. 
That  which  seemed  more  to  me  than  all  the  world,  I  had  left 
behind.  I  was  determined  to  fulfil  my  vow,  thus  to  maintain 
my  power  over,  myself;  yet  was  disgusted  with  myself  that, 
to  sustain  it,  I  had  taken  refuge  in  flight.  Why  had  I  not 
stayed  like  a  man  to  render  assistance  in  the  hour  of  afflic 
tion  ?  Why,  like  a  man,  had  I  not  proved  that  I  could 
conquer  my  heart  by  meeting  and  resisting  its  first  great 
passion,  not  by  fleeing  from  it  ? 

"  At  Nismes  I  found  my  friend  ;  also  letters  from  Lila  plead 
ing  my  return.  Poor  child  !  she  was  tired  of  her  imprisonment, 
and  was  sighing  for  an  establishment.  Notwithstanding  my 
unhappiness,  as  I  read  her  letter  I  felt  sure  that  I  had  done 
right.  In  another  month  I  was  in  America.  I  went  imme 
diately  to  the  young  ladies'  manufactory  where  I  left  Lila.  I 
found  not  the  free  young  cousin,  my  pretty  playmate,  in 
simple  robe  and  Tuscan  bonnet;  but,  instead,  a  fashionable 
young  lady  imprisoned  in  whalebones  and  hoops,  lost  in  laces 
and  flounces.  She  was  neither  prettier  nor  plainer  than  a 
thousand  other  school-girls  with  French  braids,  insipid  eyes, 


Ambrose  Moncrieffe.  299 

and  aristocratic  noses.  Like  paper  dolls,  they  are  all  pretty, 
and  all  intolerably  flat.  Label  each  one  precisely  alike 
'elegant  and  accomplished,'  sell  them  as  dainty  bits  of 
mechanism,  and  with  your  eyes  shut  you  could  safely  buy  any 
one  of  the  thousand,  and  be  sure  that  she  would  be  just  as 
frail  a  toy,  just  as  useless  a  little  plaything,  as  her  nine  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  counterparts  which  had  been  purchased  by 
other  gentlemen  who  wished  to  be  amused.  I  was  now  twenty- 
five,  and  the  last  four  years  had  been  long  enough  to  develop 
an  ideal  woman  in  my  brain.  I  believed  that  1  had  seen  the 
woman  who  could  create  in  me  the  absorbing  love  which  man 
gives  to  woman  but  once  in  his  life. 

"  I  was  sure  that  Lila  had  not  sufficient  character  to  make 
me  either  very  happy  or  miserable.  I  cherished  a  very  tender 
affection  for  her  as  my  old  playmate,  the  pet  of  my  father ; 
but  to  the  stylish  school-girl  I  was  supremely  indifferent.  We 
were  married,  and  became  one  of  the  world's  model  pairs.  We 
never  quarrelled ;  we  felt  too  high-bred  for  that,  had  there 
been  a  cause,  and  happily  there  was  no  cause.  We  felt  none 
of  the  chafing  of  life's  hard  necessities  ;  there  was  money 
enough  for  both  of  us  ;  so  we  each  took  to  enjoying  ourselves 
in  our  own  way.  I  hate  a  pedant,  but  love  an  intellectual 
woman  provided  she  has  a  heart.  I  wanted  in  my  \vife  a 
companion  in  the  highest  significance  of  that  term ;  if  Lila 
was  not,  I  resolved  that  it  should  not  be  my  fault.  I  tried  to 
interest  her  in  my  loved  German  authors  ;  tried  to  induce 
her  to  take  a  few  hours  from  society  and  devote  them  to 
pleasant  study,  reading,  painting,  and  music.  But,  alas !  in 
boarding-school  her  intellect  rose  to  its  highest  level.  The 
shallow  little  reservoir  was  then  filled  to  its  utmost  capacity  ; 
every  added  drop  from  the  ocean  of  wisdom  only  ran  over 
and  was  lost.  Slit  said  that  shetdid  not  like  people  who 
thought.  She  believed  that  the  most  uninteresting  women 
in  the  world  were  those  who  knew  a  great  deal.  There  was 
her  old  teacher,  Madame  La  Pop,  who  knew  everything ; 
but,  oh  dear,  she  was  so  tiresome ;  besides,  her  dresses  were 
always  short-waisted  and  the  skirt  always  skimped  ;  for  her 
part,  she  would  rather  have  her  dress  fit  in  Paris  style  than 
to  know  all  about  the  stars  or  those  dreadful  old  Germans. 
And  all  the  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance,  except  her  odd 
old  Ambrose,  cared  a  great  deal  more  about  having  their 
wives  graceful  than  wise.  She  would  do  anything  else  to 
please  him,  but  she  never  could  remember  those  horrid  old 
Dutch  letters.  Lila  meditated  on  the  subject  for  perhaps  ten 


300 


Victoire. 


minutes,  to  come  to  a  most  satisfactory  conclusion  regarding 
her  own  erudition.  Why  should  she  know  any  more?  Was  she 
riot  all  that  an  elegant  lady  need  be  ?  She  could  play  upon  the 
piano,  and  shriek  a  dozen  operas.  She  could  converse  in  exe 
crable  French,  and  make  diabolical  little  dogs  and  cats  out  of 
Berlin  wpol.  She  had  parsed  through  the  whole  of  Milton's 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  and  that  was  poetry  enough  to  last  for  a  life 
time.  She  dressed  like  a  princess ;  she  had  a  costly  equipage,  a 
grand  establishment ;  she  had  a  husband  and  a  poodle;  what 
more  could  she  have  if  she  were  as  wise  as  Hypatia  ?  She  doated 
on  her  poodle,  and  never  seemed  vexed  at  me  except  when  I 
accidentally  trod  on  its  toes  ;  then  the  bow-wows  of  the  dog 
and  the  tears  of  Lila  so  disturbed  my  equanimity  that  I  inva 
riably  seized  my  hat  and  rushed  from  the  house.  At  last  I  left 
Mrs.  Moncrieffe  to  be  happy  in  her  own  way  ;  in  her  poodle, 
her  establishment,  her  fashionable  charities,  and  fashionable 
parties  ;  she  accepting  her  husband  as  a  most  necessary  article 
at  all  public  displays  and  occasions. 

"  Mr.  Moncrieffe  took  to  public  life.  He  was  young,  but 
wealth  and  family  had  their  usual  influence,  and  he  held 
offices  of  honor  and  trust.  Man's  nature  is  too  comprehen 
sive,  his  powers  too  varied,  to  allow  him  often  to  become  the 
sacrifice  to  a  single  passion.  In  public  action  he  expends  his 
superfluous  energies,  dissipates  his  secret  sorrows,  and  satis 
fies  as  far  as  possible  the  demands  of  his  soul.  I  followed  the 
example  of  other  men  ;  I  could  not  throw  life  away  because  I 
had  an  unsatisfactory  home.  In  such  cases  the  difference  in 
the  actual  capacity  for  suffering  in  man  and  woman  is  not  so 
great  as  is  generally  supposed.  A  human  heart  is  a  human 
heart,  whether  dropped  in  a  man's  or  woman's  breast.  But 
women  have  so  rarely  any  great  object  of  personal  interest, 
so  little  to  live  for  outside  of  their  heai* ;  if  these  are  not 
happy,  they  shrink  back  into  their  own  natures  to  brood  over 
themselves.  Men  go  out  into  the  world  to  forget  themselves 
— at  least  the  better  part,  their  hearts.  Yet  there  are  hours, 
and  they  come  oftener  than  many  people  dream,  when  the 
busiest  man  comes  back  to  himself;  when  the  great  man- 
heart  within  him  is  just  as  lonely,  just  as  loving,  just  as 
importuning  as  the  heart  of  any  woman.  There  are  mo 
ments  when  a  sweet,  womanly  face  rises  silently  from  the 
sea  of  the  past,  into  whose  eyes  he  gazes  with  the  same  love 
which  transfigured  his  youth,  and  he  would  that  moment  give 
much  of  the  wealth  and  honor  which  fortune  has  given  him, 
could  he  only  bring  that  lost  face,  that  lost  love  back  into  his 


Ambrose  Moncrieffe.  301 

life.  But  presently  he  becomes  conscious  of  his  folly,  ashamed 
of  his  weakness,  and  rushes  back  to  the  world  and  to  business 
with  renewed  vehemence.  The  woman,  if  she  has  no  busi 
ness  particularly  interesting  or  remunerative,  which  I  am  sor 
ry  she  cannot  always  have,  has  both  opportunity  and  tempta 
tion  to  brood  on  endlessly ;  that  is  why  the  world  is  full  of 
morbid,  miserable  women.  Men's  natures  would  grow  just 
as  sickly  in  the  same  atmosphere.  Outwardly,  I  lived  a  very 
gay  and  brilliant  life,  and  was  too  entirely  occupied  to  find 
much  time  to  be  miserable.  Yet  I  often  turned  away  from  a 
face  which  no  eyes  saw  but  mine  ;  from  a  pair  of  beseeching  eyes, 
the  only  eyes  which  had  ever  melted  my  heart.  I  tried  to  be 
manly  enough  to  despise  myself  for  my  folly,  but  did  not  suc 
ceed.  Poor  Lila !  she  was  not  evil-hearted.  A  weak  nature,  a 
false  education  had  made  her  what  she  was.  She  was  not  heart 
less.  Her  affections,  if  feeble,  were  true.  She  inherited  con 
sumption  from  her  father,  and  after  one  year  of  the  wear  of 
fashionable  life  her  health  began  to  fail.  We  spent  our  summers 
in  New  York.  During  the  first  I  commenced  this  house,  desig 
nating  it  as  our  summer  home.  Lila  seemed  enchanted  with  it, 
and  made  herself  happy  anticipating  the  brilliant  summer  fetes 
and  festivals  which  she  would  give  her  metropolitan  friends 
when  it  was  completed.  She  used  to  drive  out  here  every  day 
to  watch  the  workmen  and  to  go  about  with  me  superintending 
the  laying  out  of  the  grounds.  It  seems  like  a  dream  now," 
said  Moncrieffe,  gazing  out.  "  Has  anything  about  the  place 
reminded  you  of  your  early  home  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  the  fountain,  the  gorge,  the  brook." 

"  I  told  Lila  that  the  fountain,  with  its  score  of  marble  lilies, 
was  modelled  from  one  which  I  saw  in  France,  and  she  was 
delighted  with  it.  But  she  thought  that  the  ravine  ought  to 
be  filled  up  and  sodded  over.  She  said  that  when  she  had 
her  fetes  the  guests  would  be  in  danger  of  falling  into  it,  un 
less  the  overhanging  trees  were  hung  very  thick  with  lamps. 
But  this  ravine,  with  its  trickling  waters  and  deep  shadow 
of  foliage,  was  my  favorite  retreat. 

"  Another  season  and  the  house  was  completed,  but  poor 
Lila  had  ceased  to  care  about  it  then.  She  had  gone  into 
another  '  mansion,'  which  we  are  bound  to  believe  will  never 
perish.  From  the  hour  in  which  ill-health  compelled  her  to 
forsake  the  world,  she  sought  refuge  in  religion  and  her  hus 
band.  It  did  me  good  to  have  her  need  my  care.  I  forgot 
the  fashionable  woman  in  the  little  Lila  of  my  childhood.  I 
relinquished  all  public  affairs,  and  watched  and  nursed  her  as 


302  Victoire. 

a  mother  might  a  child.  This  tender,  solicitous  affection  soft 
ened  my  nature  and  made  me  a  better  man.  After  a  wasting 
illness  she  slept ;  it  could  hardly  be  called  dying ;  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  passed  away  so  quietly.  Her  last  words  were 
full  of  affection  for  me,  her  dear,  dear  husband,  whom  she 
expected  without  a  doubt  '  to  meet  in  heaven.'  Yet  it  was 
scarcely  as  a  husband  that  I  mourned  her.  I  shed  tears  of 
sincere  sorrow  for  my  only  cousin,  the  sister  of  my  boyhood, 
my  cherished  household  pet,  for  the  young  girl  whom,  despite 
my  tenderest  solicitude,  I  had  watched  fade  and  perish  like  a 
blossom.  My  mansion  had  lost  its  mistress,  my  heart  the 
object  of  its  care,  yet  my  soul  had  not  lost  a  portion  of  itself. 
What  I  knew  a  wife  could  be  to  me,  the  very  life  of  my  life, 
Lila  was  not,  and  never  could  be.  Two  months  after  her 
death,  one  of  the  public  journals  announced  that :  *  Hon.  Am 
brose  Moncrieffe  had  sailed  for  Europe  to  dissipate,  amid  new 
scenes,  the  deep  melancholy  occasioned  by  the  death  of  his 
young  and  beautiful  wife.'  'This  is  all  the  world  knows  of 
its  votaries,'  I  thought,  as  I  read  this  paragraph.  I  had  no 
reason  to  wish  to  dissipate  the  beautiful  memory  of  Lila's  last 
hours,  the  loveliest  of  all  her  life.  I  had  no  reason  to  mourn 
that  I  was  free,  although  I  never  wished  Lila  to  die.  I  was 
sailing  towards  Europe  to  find  you.  Don't  start ;  I  was  in 
search  of  nothing  else.  From  the  moment  of  my  release, 
you  became  to  me  a  living  presence,  and  all  the  days  of  my 
married  life  a  dream.  I  determined  with  the  eyes  of  manhood 
to  look  on  the  face  which  in  a  single  glance  fascinated  my 
earlier  youth.  If  it  was  an  illusion,  I  wished  it  dispelled  ;  if 
not,  my  soul  yearned  for  the  reality.  I  reached  France,  and 
as  fast  as  steam  would  carry  me  made  my  way  to  Languedoc. 
Again  I  traced  the  road  from  Nismes  and  reached  your  home 
in  the  golden  noon  of  a  summer  day.  My  infatuation  had 
suggested  no  thought  of  change  ;  it  seemed  as  if  I  should  meet 
you  in  the  veranda,  that  you  would  greet  me  in  the  spot 
where  I  left  you.  I  was  appalled  at  what  I  saw — at  the 
silence,  the  desolation.  I  passed  the  gate  ;  high,  rank  weeds 
filled  the  broad  path.  I  drew  near  the  house  ;  ivy  enveloped 
it  like  a  tomb.  Fierce  greens  had  thrust  their  spears  through 
the  crevices  of  the  veranda ;  not  a  face  was  seen,  not  a  sound 
heard.  Even  the  fountains  were  dumb  ;  nothing  looked  as  I 
remembered  but  the  statues  and  the  cascade ;  I  saw  a  grave 
and  a  white  cross  beneath  the  firs.  'They  are  all  buried,' 
was  my  thought,  as  I  approached  it.  I  began  to  read  the 
inscription  :  *  Frederick  Vernoid,' — my  impatient  eye  glanced 


Ambrose  Moncrieffe.  303 

below  to  see  if  it  bore  another.  No,  only  one  slept  here,  and 
that  thought  brought  a  quick  sense  of  relief  to  my  fearful  anx 
iety.  I  read  the  remainder  of  the  beautiful  Christian  words 
which  a  sister's  love  had  recorded  on  that  marble  monument. 
I  gathered  a  flower  from  amid  the  long  grass  which  waved 
above  his  grave,  ami  returned  in  silence  as  I  went.  I  lingered 
a  moment  on  the  spot  where  I  had  once  separated  you  from 
the  dead  body  of  your  brother.  I  drank  from  the  moss-rimmed 
urn  which  I  had  once  filled  with  water  for  you,  and  then  de 
parted. 

"For  days  I  sought  tidings  of  you  amid  the  scattered  inhabi 
tants  of  the  valley.  All  said  that  the  young  lady  had  gone 
to  America,  but  no  one  knew  anything  certainly  of  her  fate. 
Some  had  heard  a  vague  rumor  of  her  marriage  to  a  rich  gen 
tleman  ;  but  the  majority  thought  her  dead,  and  that  the 
house  was  haunted.  If  the  young  lady  was  gone,  the  Vernoids 
were  all  dead.  They  were  a  brave,  proud  race ;  the  valley  was 
full  of  the  record  of  their  past  exploits;  the  peasants  were  sure 
that  nightly  they  visited  their  earthly  home,  the  young  lady 
and  all.  At  last  they  almost  tempted  me  to  believe  that  I  was 
a  madman  chasing  a  phantom.  And  yet,  when  I  turned 
away  from  that  valley,  a  living  face  seemed  to  look  into  mine, 
a  living  form  to  walk  by  my  side ;  I  could  not  banish  you.  I 
returned  to  America,  and  attempted  to  take  up  my  old  duties 
where  I  laid  them  down.  I  did  not  realize  until  then  how 
utter  was  my  disappointment.  I  took  no  real  interest  in  any 
thing.  I  was  disgusted  with  politics,  with  chicanery,  false 
hood,  party  strife.  None  of  the  world's  prizes  seemed  worth 
striving  after ;  that  prize  which  I  had  most  eagerly  sought 
had  eluded  me.  I  cared  for  no  other.  People  who  had  once 
called  me  a  *  smart  fellow'  and  prophesied  wonderful  success 
for  me,  now  began  to  suspect  that  I  was  a  lazy  noodle. 

"  My  friends  thought  it  was  the  death  of  my  wife  which  had 
so  changed  me,  and  advised  me  to  marry ;  quite  a  number 
of  mammas  very  disinterestedly  began  to  project  matches  for 
me.  I  had  one  answer  for  all,  that  I  probably  should  never 
marry  again.  Nearly  a  year  after  my  return  from  America, 
I  came  to  New  York,  my  brain  full  of  wise  resolutions  re 
garding  my  life.  I  had  resolved  to  break  the  shackles  of  that 
dream,  and  be  my  old  self  again.  I  even  thought  of  opening 
a  law  office  in  the  city,  and  of  seriously  going  to  work.  In 
the  midst  of  such  sensible  cogitations  I  strolled  into  a  picture- 
gallery  mechanically  one  day.  I  did  not  expect  to  be  in 
terested,  and  therefore  began  to  gaze  about  as  carelessly  as  I 


304  Victoire. 

had  entered.  I  saw,  at  one  end  of  the  gallery,  a  large  painting, 
relieved  by  dark  green  drapery.  I  walked  towards  it,  and,  as 
I  looked,  for  the  first  time  in  ray  life  doubted  the  evidence  of 
my  senses.  For  a  moment  I  felt  that  I  must  be  the  victim  of 
hallucination.  But  no,  my  eyes  could  not  tell  so  many  lies ; 
it  was  as  substantial  a  picture  of  canvas,  oil;  and  colors,  as  any 
in  the  room.  There  was  no  mistaking  your  face,  nor  Frede 
rick's,  nor  my  own  ;  no  mistaking  that  unique  home,  that 
magnificent  scenery.  No  one  could  have  painted  that  picture 
but  you ;  you  could  not  have  conveyed  the  idea  to  any  one 
who  could  have  embodied  it  so  perfectly,  who  could  have  in 
fused  so  much  reality,  so  much  soul  into  its  expression.  'All 
that  was  in  that  picture  had  been  felt  before  it  was  portrayed. 
I  went  immediately  to  the  director  of  the  gallery,  who  told 
me  all  that  he  knew  about  it.  He  purchased  it,  he  said,  of  a 
very  ordinary  appearing  woman,  who  seemed  to  have  no  very 
high  appreciation  of  art.  She  informed  him  that  the  picture 
was  the  work  of  a  young  French  girl  who  had  left  it  with  her 
in  payment  for  debt.  She  had  lost  track  of  the  young  lady, 
but  she  was  very  sure  that  she  was  dead,  or  had  returned  to 
France.  The  director  knew  nothing  of  the  young  artist's 
name;  the  woman  did  not  mention  it;  he  gave  her  five  hun 
dred  dollars  for  the  painting  ;  she  asked  six,  saying  that  would 
not  cover  the  amount  of  the  young  girl's  indebtedness,  who 
had  had  a  long  illness  in  her  house.  The  gentleman  asked  a 
thousand  dollars  for  it ;  I  would  have  given  him  three — yes, 
half  of  my  fortune,  rather  than  not  have  possessed  it. 

"While  the  picture  was  being  taken  down,  the  director 
noticed  for  the  first  time  the  resemblance  between  my  face 
and  the  one  on  the  canvas. 

"  *  Why,  sir,'  he  said,  '  one  of  these  faces  looks  enough  like 
you  to  be  your  portrait.' 

"  When  I  again  entered  Broadway  I  had  forgotten  that  there 
was  a  law  office  in  Christendom.  I  did  not  believe  that  you 
were  dead.  No,  I  felt  sure  that  you  lived.  Relying  on  the 
woman's  statement,  instead  of  any  conviction  of  my  own,  I 
was  inclined  to  think  that  you  had  returned  to  France,  as  you 
were  an  artist;  probably  to  Paris.  In  another  week,  the 
painting,  sacredly  cased,  with  its  new  owner,  had  taken  pas 
sage  for  Europe  ;  and,  in  a  few  weeks  more,  both  were  fairly 
domesticated  in  Paris.  By  Mr.  Van  Ostrand's  account,  I 
learned  that  I  sailed  the  very  week  that  vou  were  married." 

"You  did?" 

"Yes." 


Ambrose  Moncrieffe.  305 

"  I  searched  for  you  in  Paris.  I  went  again  to  Languedoc 
and  found  it  silent  as  before.  The  people  around  said  that  they 
heard  a  gentleman  in  Paris  had  bought  Les  Delices  ;  but  he  had 
never  lived  in  it,  had  never  even  visited  it.  They  were  quite  sure 
that  he  was  afraid  of  the  ghosts  of  the  Vernoids.  And  they 
evidently  regarded  me  as  an  astonishing  and  slightly  sus 
picious  individual,  to  be  coming  again  in  search  of  dead  peo 
ple.  I  made  Paris  my  home  for  nearly  two  years,  though, 
in  the  meantime,  I  went  to  Florence  and  Rome,  vainly  hoping 
to  find  a  young  artist  sitting  amid  the  wondrous  pictures  of 
the  Doria  palaces  or  the  Vatican.  I  would  return  from  my 
fruitless  searches  to  Paris,  and,  for  a  time,  give  myself  up  to 
study ;  doing  my  best  to  perfect  myself  in  arts  and  sciences 
which  I  cared  nothing  about.  I  was  positive  that  you  were 
not  in  Paris,  almost  positive  that  you  were  not  in  Europe, 
when,  for  the  third  time,  I  turned  my  face  towards  America. 

"  One  of  the  first  objects  which  attracted  my  attention  after 
my  arrival  wras  '  Niobe,'  which  was  then  on  public  exhibi 
tion.  In  the  hundreds  of  paintings  which  I  had  seen,  this 
was  the  first  which  reminded  me  of  you.  Not  that  it  looked 
like  you  in  any  definable  way;  yet  there  was  something  in  the 
expression  of  the  eyes  which  recalled  yours  forcibly ;  but 
more,  there  was  something  in  the  outline,  the  touch,  the 
coloring,  which  suggested  my  own  painting  the  work  of  your 
hand.  I  thought  that  I  detected  in  both  one  individuality, 
yet  feared  much  that  it  was  fancy. 

"  I  found  no  mystery  hanging  over  Niobe.  The  proprietor 
of  the  gallery  informed  me  that  it  was  the  production  of  a 
lady,  the  wife  of  a  distinguished  physician,  Dr.  Rochelle,  who 
was  proud  of  his  wife,  and  afforded  her  every  opportunity  to 
perfect  herself  in  her  art.  I  went  away,  intending  to  forget 
this  Xiobe,  but  did  not  succeed  ;  had  I  done  so  I  should  have 
banished  you.  In  writing  to  you,  I  did  what  I  had  never 
done  before  in  my  life,  yet  felt  irresistibly  impelled  to  do  at 
this  time.  I  felt  a  vague  hope  that  if  you  were  the  maiden 
of  Languedoc,  you  would  in  some  way  refer  to  your  lost  pic 
ture.  You  did  not ;  yet,  in  the  reticence  of  your  reply,  I 
found  more  than  in  many  pages.  If  you  were  she,  I  did  not 
want  the  faint  illusion  dissipated,  neither  did  I  wish  to  draw 
nearer  to  you ;  if  you  were  indeed  she,  it  was  too  late  to  in 
trude  upon  your  individual  life,  hence  my  impersonal  letters. 
I  met  you  nowhere  in  the  society  where  I  dragged  myself. 
And  my  friend,  Mr.  Van  Ostrand,  informed  me  that  although 
so  young,  and  having  all  the  appearance  of  one  created  for 


306 


Victoire. 


society  rather  than  solitude,  you  seemed  to  be  perfectly  ab 
sorbed  in  art  ;  shutting  yourself  up  in  your-  Edeu  as  if  you 
and  your  Adam  were  still  earth's  only  inhabitants.  It  \v:is  at 
this  time  I  learned  the  astounding  fact  that  your  '  Bel  Eden' 
was  no  other  than  the  home  which  I  had  built  for  my  little 
Lila.  I  had  not  visited  it  since  my  first  return  from  Languedoc. 
Shall  I  confess  my  madness?  I  had  a  hope  that  I  should  re 
turn  with  you  my  wife,  and  offer  you  Bel  Eden  as  your  home. 
Such  was  my  disappointment  I  did  not  visit  it  ;  and  it  was 
after  I  had  relinquished  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  you,  that  I 
allowed  my  agent  to  sell  it  shortly  before  I  came  to  New 
York  and  found  your  wonderful  painting.  I  wanted  a  law 
office,  but  I  thought  that  I  should  never  want  a  home.  One 
day  my  conviction  of  your  identity  became  a  certainty.  I 
was  sitting  in  Mr.  Van  Ostrand's  office,  when  he  exclaimed  — 

"  *  There,  there  goes  Madame  Rochelle  in  that  carriage  !' 

"  I  followed  the  direction  of  his  pointing  finger,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  your  face,  and  knew  that  it  was  you.  Why  had  I 
not  caught  that  glimpse  years  before  ?  Perhaps  I  turned  pale, 
for  Mr.  Van  Ostrand  exclaimed  —  '  Good  heavens  !  Moncrieffe, 
what  is  the  matter?'  To  which  inquiry  I  could  only  reply, 
*  Mrs.  Rochelle  reminds  me  forcibly  of  a  lady  whom  I  met 
years  ago..' 

"  A  mysterious  interfusion  of  circumstances  has  seemed  to 
render  it  necessary  that  I  should  say  all  that  I  have  said  to 
you.  If  you  had  not  recognised  me  I  should  have  remained 
silent  ;  but,  knowing  me  as  I  you,  an  explanation  was  inevi 
table.  I  have  told  the  simple  truth.  Yet  do  not  fear  that  I 
shall  disturb  you,  or  in  any  way  invade  your  peace.  I  am  not 
a  weak  boy  now  to  be  running  away  from  myself.  I  know 
well  what  honor  and  right  demand  ;  I  shall  obey." 

I  made  no  reply  to  his  words.  Like  all  that  seizes  my  deeper 
nature,  they  seemed  to  paralyse  me.  I  was  dumb.  At  last 
my  eye  fell  upon  the  magazine  which  contained  the  Italian 
story.  I  opened  to  it  and  asked,  "  Did  you  not  write  this  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  "  I  am  not  a  story  writer,  yet  I  wrote 


a^  before  I  knew  that  you  were  Madame  Rochelle." 

"  It  came  in  the  very  mail  with  your  first  letter.  I  read  it 
immediately  after  reading  that.  Does  it  not  seem  strange  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  No  stranger  than  all  the  rest,"  he  said,  rising  and  going 
silently  to  inspect  the  paintings  upon  the  walls. 

«k  Good-bye,"  he  added,  in  a  ft-w  moments,  as  he  offered  his 
hand,  "  I  saw  Dr.  Rochc-lle  before  coining,  and  he  urged  me 


Society.  307 

to  await  his  return  to  tea.  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  give  him 
my  regrets,  and  tell  him  I  could  not  stay  to-day  ?  Ask  him  to 
call  on  me.  Good-bye,"  he  said  again,  folding  my  hand  in  a 
frank,  friendly  grasp,  and  no  more.  I  arose  to  see  him  depart.  I 
saw  him  enter  his  carriage,  received  his  kind  parting  glance, 
watched  the  wheels  flash  through  the  trees  along  the  road.  I 
walked  back  into  the  parlor  as  if  in  a  dream,  yet  by  the  pain  lying 
sore  against  my  heart,  I  knew  that  it  was  a  reality.  Yes,  it  was 
a  reality  ;  there  lay  the  card  traced  by  the  well-known  hand  ;  a 
great  light  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  the  room  ;  that,  too,  was 
reality.  Once  more  I  looked  out  upon  God's  world.  Softly 
the  tender  light  of  the  celestial  day  stole  through  the  open 
windows.  How  bland,  how  benign,  how  beneficent  it  was,  bap 
tizing  me  with  its  warm  effulgence  !  Perfume,  melody,  and 
sunshine  were  around  me;  so  were  scathed  flowers,  dead 
leaves,  and  desolation. 

Once  more  I  mounted  Zenaide,  and  went  quietly  down  the 
road  to  meet  Henri. 


SOCIETY. 

Winter  came,  and  to  me  seclusion,  solitude,  had  lost  their 
charms.  Mine  was  no  longer  a  self-supported  life.  Existence 
was  touched  with  delirium.  In  the  feverish  atmosphere  of 
society  I  breathed  more  freely  than  in  the  stiflingly  calm  air 
of  my  home.  Bel  Eden  was  deserted  for  the  season.  Now 
that  no  summer  beauty  nor  autumn  glory  rendered  the 
country  inviting,  Henri  wished  to  be  nearer  to  business, 
nearer  to  all  metropolitan  opportunities  and  entertainments. 
I  said  "  yes,"  as  usual,  to  this  proposition,  Avhich  h&d  become 
an  annual  one  ;  yet  breathed  a  quick  sigh  after,  not  because 
I  had  answered  reluctantly,  but  so  eagerly.  One  year  before, 
I  had  said  "  yes"  without  feeling  one  pulsation  of  that  eager 
ness.  Then  the  gay  world  of  society  was  not  half  so  alluring 
to  me  as  my  own  home.  Then  winter,  folding  its  ermine 
around  the  fauns  and  naiads  of  the  park;  spreading  its  white 
mantle  over  hill  and  dingle,  along  avenue  and  vista ;  fringing 
the  green  arbor-vit£e  with  convoluted  pearl,  sheathing  the 
great  pillars  of  the  trees  in  glittering  ice  ;  hanging  from  a  mil 
lion  sprays  millions  of  gleaming  icicles,  till  I  seemed  imprison 
ed  in  a  vast  emblazoned  palace  sculptured  in  crystal — was  far 
dearer  to  me  than  winter  scattering  his  liquescent  pearls  ou 


308  Victoire. 

ugly  griffins  and  grim  stone  lions  guarding  the  portals  of 
stately  mansions ;  or  than  winter  with  his  white  robes  sullied 
and  torn  by  the  grime  and  tramping  feet  of  the  city.  Then, 
far  more  satisfactory  to  me  was  daily  quiet,  my  self-imposed 
tasks,  my  books,  my  children  of  the  Mission-school,  my  dear 
visits  with  Morna,  than  all  the  gay  eclat  of  dressing,  going, 
seeing,  and  being  seen,  which  forms  the  programme  of  a  fash 
ionable  winter  season. 

It  was  different  now.  I  had  sought  in  religion  the  com 
plete  satisfaction  which  leaves  no  room  for  another.  Now  I 
went  into  the  gay  absorbing  world  in  search  of  an  impersonal 
life ;  let  the  conflict  cost  what  it  might,  I  was  determined  to 
live  without,  not  within  myself.  Dust  had  once  more  gather 
ed  on  the  face  of  poor  Thomas  a  Kempis  in  the  undisturbed 
closet  into  which  I  had  thrust  him.  Holy  old  monk  !  I  rarely 
talked  with  him  now.  All  his  words  of  consolation  I  carried 
in  my  memory.  I  did  not  wish  to  remember  more,  for  was 
he  not  constantly  calling  upon  me  for  renouncement  and 
self-examination  ?  Again  I  had  come  to  the  sad  conclusion 
that  I  had  no  genius  for  abnegation.  I  was  tired  of  examin 
ing  my  heart ;  I  wished  only  to  forget  it. 

I  heard  no  name  spoken  so  often  as  that  of  Ambrose  Mon- 
crieffe.  A  love  as  strong  and  deep  as  he  once  gave  to  my 
brother  Frederick,  Henri  Rochelle  gave  to  this  new  friend.  His 
personal  attachments  were  rare,  but,  as  you  well  know,  tena 
cious  as  death.  This  genial,  richly-dowered  soul,  this  graceful, 
winning  cosmopolite,  opened  a  fountain  of  infinite  refreshment 
to  the  fastidious  yet  practical  man  of  science,  crowded  with 
the  business  of  the  every-day  world.  His  most  intimate  com 
panions  were  not  elected  from  among  those  who  followed  the 
same  pursuits;  he  sought  those  rather,  who  could  add  to  his 
life  the  ch%rm  of  variety. 

Ambrose  Moncrieffe  won  love  from  persons  of  all  classes 
and  conditions.  He  had  a  man's  athletic  brain,  with  all  a 
woman's  tenderness.  The  manly  iron  was  not  stinted  in 
his  making,  but  through  it  ran  a  vein  of  feminine  gold.  You 
were  impressed  with  his  refinement,  his  delicacy,  his  gen- 
tk-ness ;  but  were  equally  conscious  of  his  intellectual  power, 
his  capacity  for  strong  passion.  High  mentality  made  love  in 
him  an  exalted  sentiment;  a  passion  of  the  soul  rather  than 
a  fever  of  the  senses.  He  was  a  man  who  could  feel  tempta 
tion  through  every  fibre,  because  it  appealed  through  a  vivid 
imagination  directly  to  his  heart.  He  might  stray  where  Henri 
would  not  even  be  enticed  ;  he  might  fall,  through  the  very 


Society.  309 

excess  of  that  in  his  nature  which  in  itself  was  beautiful  and 
holy;  yet  so  tender  was  his  conscience,  so  high  his  standard 
of  honor,  though  the  world  and  God  might  forgive,  he  would 
never  quite  forgive  himself  for  the  slightest  act  unworthy  of 
his  manhood. 

He  was  as  versatile  as  he  was  opulent  in  mental  resources  ; 
he  impressed  you  as  one  of  those  fortunate  mortals  who  suc 
ceed  in  whatever  they  attempt ;  yet  it  required  the  strongest 
pressure  of  circumstances  to  force  all  his  power  into  action. 
Had  he  been  born  poor  he  would  have  distanced  every  difficulty 
and  achieved  a  splendid  career.  He  was  equal  to  grand  occa 
sions  ;  he  would  have  added  to  the  glory  of  a  great  epoch ;  he 
suggested  all  that  was  noble  and  exalted  in  a  man's  destiny,  yet 
it  was  very  probable  that  his  whole  life  would  prove  only  a  sug 
gestion  and  not  the  reality.  Unless  moved  by  some  ex 
traordinary  incentive,  he  was  just  the  man  to  slip  through  the 
world,  attempting  little  and  accomplishing  less.  So  hopeless 
ly  high  was  his  standard  of  achievement,  he  found  it  very  easy 
to  be  nothing  but  what  he  could  not  help  being,  a  gentleman 
of  generous  fortune,  scattering  lavish  blessings  about  him,  just 
as  it  happened  ;  followed  by  troops  of  friends  whom  he  did 
not  particularly  need  ;  carrying  with  him  a  splendor  of  culture 
and  a  wealth  of  gifts  for  which  he  had  no  particular  use.  In 
making  him,  God  did  not  drop  the  seed  of  a  great  ambition 
into  his  soul.  He  seemed  utterly  devoid  of  the  greed  for  per 
sonal  fame  and  power  which  is  the  almost  unfailing  accom 
paniment  of  secondary  endowments.  His  comprehensive  soul 
had  measured  all  the  world  of  human  action  ;  he  had  weighed 
all  its  prizes  in  a  most  exquisite  balance,  and  on  the  whole  did 
not  think  them  worth  struggling  after.  It  required  a  motive 
higher,  stronger  than  the  desire  for  personal  aggrandizement, 
to  arouse  Ambrose  Moncrieffe  to  be  all  that  he  could  be.  He 
had  faults,  as  all  truly  lovable  people  are  sure  to  have.  His 
were  those  imperial  faults  which  dazzle,  allure,  and  fascinate, 
as  the  stark  virtues  of  the  sterile-minded  never  can.  If  he 
seemed  to  win  more  love  than  his  share,  it  was  not  because 
he  deserved  it  more,  or  sought  it  half  so  eagerly  as  many  who 
seemed  famishing  for  the  lack  of  it,  but  simply  because  he 
was  endowed  by  nature  with  those  graces  of  mind  and  per 
son,  those  qualities  of  heart,  which,  when  found  in  man  or 
woman,  win  love  as  inevitably  as  the  sun  draws  towards  its 
bosom  the  floods  of  ocean. 

When  Ambrose  Moncrieffe  said  "  Good-bye"  on  the  Octo 
ber  afternoon  when  he  first  visited  me,  he  spoke  as  if  that 


310 


Victoire. 


"good-bye"  were  final.  But  Henri  was  not  charmed  so  often 
that  he  could  allow  a  man  who  pleased  him  thoroughly  to  pass 
away  from  his  sight  without  an  effort  to  retain  him. 

"  Moncrieffe  seems  to  have  a  world  of  engagements.  I  have 
invited  him  here  to  dine  every  day  for  a  week,"  he  said,  not 
many  days  after  that  first  meeting.  A  few  more  passed  away, 
and  Moncrieffe  came. 

Men  have  a  very  short  and  sensible  way  of  becoming  ac 
quainted  with  each  other.  They  are  not  half  as  foolish  in  this 
matter  as  women.  They  have  not  the  thousand  and  one  pre 
liminaries  to  pass  over,  nor  one-tenth  of  the  silly  punctilios 
of  etiquette  which  are  for  ever  thrusting  to  an  immeasurable 
distance  from  each  other  women  who  ought  to  be  friends. 
Men  take  each  other's  hands,  look  into  each  other's  faces  (not 
at  each  other's  clothes),  measuring  each  other  in  the  look  ; 
they  smoke  cigars  together,  or  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  or  invite 
each  other  home  to  dinner ;  discuss  the  state  of  the  nation, 
the  condition  of  the  town,  their  favorite  politician,  minister, 
and  doctor;  and,  provided  no  unusual  resisting  medium  ob 
trudes  itself,  these  two  men  rise  farther  advanced  in  their 
social  relations  than  would  two  fashionable  women  after  a 
two  years' series  of  "friendly  calls."  Thus,  in  what  seemed 
to  me  an  inconceivably  brief  period,  to  my  amazement  I  found 
that  Henri  Rochelle  and  Ambrose  Moncrieffe  seemed  to  be  as 
intimately  acquainted  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  from 
their  birth. 

"  A  man  who  had  reared  such  an  enchanting  home  for  other 
people  to  enjoy  was  entitled  to  their  hospitalities  as  long  as 
he  would  accept  them,"  Henri  said.  So  through  all  that 
heavenly  October  and  the  first  sere  days  of  the  sad  Novem 
ber,  when  I  rode  Zenaide  through  the  elm-road  to  the  railway 
station,  I  often  met  two  mounted  knights  instead  of  one.  A 
pair  of  eyes  which  for  years  had  shed  a  mournful  splendor 
upon  all  ray  dreams  became  luminous  verities  beside  my  table. 
One  evening  Morna  sat  opposite  them,  and  that  evening  I 
learned  for  the  first  time  that  Moncrieffe  was  an  amateur  in 
music.  She  played,  they  sang  together — his  clear,  mellow 
tenor  blending  with  her  rich  contralto.  I  sat  apart,  I  listened 
—or  did  I  only  feel  ?  That  was  the  voice  to  which  all  my 
nature  responded  the  first  time  that  I  ever  heard  it.  Was  it 
less  seductive  now  ?  I  would  fain  have  lain  prone  upon  my 
face  and  wept  my  soul  away— yet  I  did  not  weep  at  all.  I 
said  and  did  nothing.  Yet  I  remember  that  Morna  stole 
softly  to  my  side  afterwards  and  whispered  : 


Society.  311 

"  Dear  Victoire,  what  ails  you  ?  You  are  as  white  as  if  you 
were  dead." 

But  Moncrieffe's  brief  visits  were  usually  filled  with  conversa 
tion.  Henri  and  he  had  travelled  through  the  same  lands ; 
there  were  endless  reminiscences  to  recall ;  there  was  Paris 
life,  an  almost  inexhaustible  theme;  there  were  the  affairs  of 
the  world  to  be  discussed,  after  the  fashion  of  men  ;  there  was 
the  condition  of  the  country  to  be  deplored  ;  there  were 
parties  to  be  denounced  ;  individuals  were  saved  in  the  heaven 
of  Moncrieffe's  vast  charity.  When  other  topics  grew  stale, 
by  way  of  variety  Henri  would  fall  to  lecturing  Moncrieffe  in 
a  frank,  pleasant  way ;  said  lectures  always  being  received 
with  the  most  unperturbed  serenity.  One  unusually  mild 
afternoon,  after  dinner,  they  sauntered  out  into  the  piazza  to 
smoke  their  Havanahs.  They  seated  themselves  in  the  don't- 
care  posture  which  is  the  pet  felicity  of  men  who  have  seized 
an  hour  to  "  take  it  easy" — their  chairs  poised  on  two  legs, 
their  feet  several  degrees  nearer  their  head  than  usual,  rest 
ing  most  comfortably  on  the  marble  balustrade.  I,  within, 
was  meditating  upon  the  sublime  composure  with  which  men 
accept  life,  when,  after  a  series  of  long  whiffs,  I  heard  Henri  say : 

"  Moncrieffe,  you  are  a  lazy  fellow." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  his  companion,  with  utter  nonchalance, 
watching  the  blue  smoke  of  his  cigar  curl  up  through  the 
golden  air. 

"  You  waste  your  time  shamefully." 

"I  know  it." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  make  a  better  use  of  it  ?  You  are 
full  of  aspirations  after  a  grand,  ideal  life.  With  your  infinite 
resources,  why  don't  you  make  such  a  life  possible  by  embody 
ing  it  before  our  eyes  ?" 

"  Don't  make  any  demands  upon  me,  Rochelle  ;  it  is  too 
late  to  comply  with  them." 

"  Too  late  !  Here  you  are,  hardly  thirty ;  and,  with  a  whole 
world  of  splendid  acquisitions  in  your  head,  you  are  doing 
absolutely  nothing." 

"  I  have  nothing  particular  to  do.  The  world  would  be  a 
terribly  tedious  place  if  everybody  in  it  worked  as  hard  to 
benefit  it  as  you  do.  It  is  the  law  of  a  Frenchman's  being  to 
keep  flying  about.  It  is  the  law  of  a  Southerner's  to  make 
himself  as  comfortable  as  possible." 

"  You  can't  accuse  me  of  flying.  I  only  keep  doing,"  said 
Henri.  "  Besides  I  am  not  a  pure  Frenchman  ;  my  mother  was 
an  Englishwoman." 


312 


Victoire. 


"  Well,  you  always  impressed  me  as  a  very  queer  Frenchman. 
Your  mother  made  you  English,  every  inch  of  you ;  that's 
English,  to  keep  for  ever  doing." 

"  But  what  is  English  or  French  is  not  to  the  point.  You 
must  excuse  me,  Moncrieffe,  for  my  meddlesome  pertinacity. 
If  I  did  not  like  you  I  should  not  mention  it ;  but  now  I  am  real 
ly  afflicted  to  see  you  doing  yourself  such  great  injustice.  Leav 
ing  all  culture  out  of  the  question,  nature  made  you  an  orator. 
You  would  make  a  special  pleader,  a  great  advocate.  It  will  he 
your  own  fault  if,  in  ten  years,  you  are  not  one  of  the  distin 
guished  members  of  the  New  York  bar.  I  believe  that  it  is 
your  moral  duty  to  open  a  law  office  in  New  York." 

"  I  am  not  sure  but  that  it  is  my  moral  duty  to  quit  New 
York'  as  soon  as  possible." 

"What !  and  bury  yourself  in  that  little  provincial  city.  If 
you  are  going  to  live  on  this  continent  at  all,  New  York  is 
the  only  place  where  a  cosmopolitan  can  live.  Here  he  has 
room  to  breathe  and  do.  Here  he  is  quickened  by  the  elec 
tricity  of  human  masses ;  here  the  energy,  the  life  of  the  na 
tion  culminates.  The  wealth,  the  misery,  the  wants  of  hu 
manity ." 

"  Don't  bore  me  with  *  the  wants  of  humanity,'  I  beg  of  you, 
Rochelle.  It  is  a  hopeless  task  for  you  to  attempt  to  strain 
me  up  to  a  high  point  of  philanthropy.  I'll  do  everything 
that  I  know  how  for  everybody  that  needs  me.  Perhaps 
you  can  live  on  the  luxury  of  doing  good,  and  be  satisfied ; 
I  can't.  Individuals  so  absorb  me  that  I  can't  swallow 
the  whole  human  race  at  once.  If  I  should  seriously  set 
myself  to  work. to  relief e  'the  wants  of  humanity,'  I  should 
be  so  overpowered  with  their  number  and  my  inability 
to  supply  them,  that  I  should  give  you  the  opportunity  of 
shutting  me  in  a  lunatic  asylum  within  the  space  of  a  year  or 
two.  It  is  best  for  some  people  to  live  as  much  of  an  oyster- 
life  as  possible  ;  they  will  feel  enough  then." 

"And  do  nothing?  You  are  wrong,  depend  upon  it;  and 
you  have  seen  the  day  when  you  did  not  discover  so  much 
merit  in  doing  nothing." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  have  seen  the  day  when  I  was  as  busy  as  a 
Yankee.  I  am  not  aware  that  I  am  any  better  or  happier,  or 
the  world  either,  for  my  having  been  so." 

"  The  thwarting  of  your  life-plan  has  made  you  morbid  in 
one  particular,  but  no  more.  I  am  sure  I  don't  blame  you," 
said  Henri,  very  kindly.  "  Perhaps  I  cannot  sympathize  with 
you,  for  I  have  obtained  every  object  in  this  life  that  I  ever 


Society.  313 

sought.  Nothing  would  so  near  unman  me  as  to  bury  my 
wife,  yet  with  rne  it  would  be  a  point  of  conscience  to  go  on 
with  every  duty,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  The  putting 
out  of  one  hope  should  not  make  you  blind  to  all  the  rest,  my 
dear  fellow." 

"  Of  course  it  is  ungrateful ;  but  some  people,  if  they  are 
denied  the  only  treasure  they  ever  asked  for,  disdain  all  other 
gifts.  Who  is  it  says  that  everybody  can  be  a  philosopher 
over  other  people's  troubles  ?  Perhaps  I  shall  be  aroused  to 
the  importance  of  accomplishing  a  career  some  time.  But 
there  is  no  forcing  experiences,  you  know,  Rochelle.  I  am 
sure  that  it  is  kind  in  you  to  be  so  interested-  in  my  destiny. 
I  hope  that  I  shall  never  prove  ungrateful." 

"  I  wish  that  you  would  show  your  gratitude  by  using  one 
or  more  of  your  thousand  accomplishments  to  some  purpose. 
What  do  all  your  Greek,  and  Latin,  and  Italian  classics  amount 
to,  if  you  never  use  them  ?" 

"They  amount  to  this,  that  they  afford  me  a  vast  amount 
of  entertainment.  And  if  a  man  is  too  indolent  to  make  an 
effort  to  benefit  his  race,  he  ought  at  least  to  be  able  to  amuse 
himself."  - 

"  It  is  a  mystery  to  me,"  said  Henri,  "  how  you  ever  con 
trived  to  ransack  the  ages,  and  search  all  climes  for  the  lore 
of  heaven  and  earth.  You  have  neither  the  looks  nor  the 
habits  of  a  student.  Where  did  you  find  all  that  you  know, 
Moncrieffe  ?  You  never  exerted  yourself  terribly,  I  am  cer 
tain." 

"Well,"  said  Moncrieffe,  "some  people  are  like  moles, 
you  know ;  they  dig  and  dig,  till  they  ferret  out  a  vast  pile  of 
knowledge ;  and  some  are  like  sponges ;  they  suck  it  in  from 
every  vein  in  nature,  without  exerting  themselves  particulai'ly. 
They  are  constantly  absorbing ;  yet  this  drop,  or  that,  they 
cannot  tell  when  or  how  they  drank  it  in.  If  they  are  full, 
praise  not  them,  but  the  rich  worjd  around-them.  Perhaps  I 
am  a  sponge." 

"  That  you  are ;  you  manage  to  sponge  out  of  me  more 
time  than  any  other  mortal  living,  except  my  Victoire  ;  and, 
by  the  way,  in  many  respects  you  are  marvellously  like  her. 
Here  she  is,  ready  for  a  walk  as  usual,"  said  Henri,  looking 
around  and  seeing  me  by  his  side,  hat  in  hand.  The  feet 
came  down  from  the  balustrade,  and  the  two  diminished  cigars, 
with  ashen  crests  and  burning  eyes,  flew  simultaneously  into 
a  bed  of  withered  leaves. 

We  went  out  together  under  the  wind-swept. branches  of 

14 


Victoire. 

i 

the  great  trees,  under  the' solemn  pines  waving  above  us  their 
odor-tipped  lances,  dipping  them  now  far  out  in  the  sunset's 
gold.  On  we  went  through  the  dank  yellow  grass,  through 
the  dismantled  flowers,  through  the  rain-torn  autumnal  leaves 
which  covered  the  ground  with  a  red-brown  carpet,  till  we 
reached  the  bridge  down  in  the  ravine.  Here  we  stood  a 
moment  in  silence,  when  Henri  said,  taking  out  his  watch: 

"  I  must  be  in  town  in  an  hour.  I  have  four  patients  whom 
I  must  call  upon  this  evening." 

So  we  wandered  back  where  the  carriage  stood  waiting, 
and  I,  standing  on  the  piazza,  saw  them  depart  together. 
Moncrieffe  did  not  visit  Bel  Eden  again  that  year.  A 
few  days  after,  all  our  household,  including  Kate  Murphy, 
George  Peacock,  no  small  number  of  dogs,  cats,  and  birds, 
besides  Pontiff  and  Zenaide,  were  transferred  to  our  city 
home. 

One  of  the  most  unalloyed  pleasures  of  my  daily  life  con 
sisted  in  watching  the  gradual  transformation  of  George 
Washington  Peacock.  Unawares,  a  beautiful  soul  was  grow 
ing  in  the  boy.  To  be  sure  he  retained  his  idiosyncrasies; 
he  was  George  Washington  Peacock  still,  and  no  one  wished 
him  to  be  any  one  else.  He  was  not  yet  remarkable  tor  flu 
ency  of  speech,  although  now  he  could  speak  upon  the  sub 
jects  most  exciting  to  him  without  stumbling  over  an  oath. 
His  love  of  truth  was  no  longer  displayed  at  the  expense  of 
his  good  temper.  His  love  of  beauty  had  grown  harmonious 
ly  amid  the  refinement  of  his  later  life;  and  his  strong  desire 
for  goodness,  struggling  into  existence  amid  moral  darkness 
and  deformity,  had  grown  into  a  sturdy,  healthy  principle, 
tempering  all  his  actions.  It  was  not  half  so  apparent  in  the 
fact  that  he  asked  for  the  privilege  of  teaching  a  class  of  little 
ragged  boys  in  the  Mission-school,  as  it  was  in  his  private  in 
tercourse  with  his  family  ;  in  the  Christian  dispositions  which 
he  manifested  to  his  brothers  and  sisters ;  in  his  obedience  to 
his  mother;  in  his  tender  forbearance  when  she  tried  him 
most — an  instrument  more  potent  in  the  reformation  of  friends 
than  any  number  of  long  sermons,  or  any  amount  of  righteous 
indignation.  His  love  for  light  reading  had  grown  into  a  de 
sire  for  useful  knowledge.  Every  spare  cqjit  of  wages  was 
expended  on  books  to  study.  And  his  delight  knew  no  bounds 
when,  on  our  arrival  in  town,  Henri  offered  him  the  privilege 
of  attending  a  boys'  academy. 

Since  the  day  when  she  asked  him  to  go  to  Sabbath  school, 
Hope's  interest  in  his  welfare  had  in  nowise  diminished. 


Society.  315 

Every  month  brought  him  letters  traced  by  her  beautiful  hand, 
full  of  sweet,  unconscious  pictures  of  Parisian  life  such  as  her 
limited  school-girl  experience  enabled  her  to  see.  The  boy 
made  these  letters  into  a  book,  placing  them  inside  of  a  hand 
some  cover,  each  letter  forming  an  additional  leaf,  making  at 
last  a  large  volume.  This  he  allowed  to  come  in  contact  with 
no  other  book  but  his  Bible,  on  which  he  laid  it,  studying  it 
as  scarcely  less  a  divine  oracle.  He  lived  in  the  ever-yearning 
desire  to  make  himself  an  object  worthy  of  her  approbation. 

Hope's  home  letters  were  an  unmingled  delight ;  they  were 
diaries  into  which  every  phase  of  her  guileless  young  life  was 
written.  It  was  very  evident  that  the  great  world  was  not 
spoiling  her.  She  was  one  from  whom  every  contamination 
would  drop  off,  so  wonderful  was  the  spell  of  innocence  and 
purity  which  she  carried  in  herself.  Her  letters,  written  in 
French,  Italian,  and  Spanish,  were  graceful  proofs  of  her  ad 
vancing  scholarship,  while  every  word  which  they  breathed 
was  touched  with  unconscious  humility,  which  was  as  natural 
to  her  as  her  beauty  and  grace. 

"  How  I  long  for  you,  my  beloved  ones,"  she  would  write  ; 
"  yet  I  gladly  submit  to  any  exile  which  at  last  will  make  me 
more  worthy  of  you." 

•  In  one  of  his  letters,  written  before  we  met,  Moncrieffe 
spoke  thus  of  the  face  of  Hebe  which  was  exhibited  beside 
Niobe.  Pie  supposed  it  an  ideal  face,  and  said  : 

"  It  is  wondrously  beautiful,  and  lacks  nothing  but  inten 
sity — that  intensity  which  always  accompanies  an  impassioned 
nature  and  deep  capacity  for  suffering.  Such  a  look  could 
never  deepen  the  dream-like  beauty  of  this  face,  or  the  nature 
which  it  represents.  Hebe  could  gently  grieve  or  be  sweetly 
sorrowful ;  she  could  not  be  rent  with  anguish.  There  is  no 
selfishness  in  this  face.  She  could  relinquish  everything, 
life  itself,  for  another ;  yet  she  would  not  suffer  in  renouncing 
as  Niobe  would.  Niobe  would  make  a  larger  sacrifice  in 
offering  the  same  object,  for  in  putting  it  away  from  her  she 
would  tear  her  heart  with  it.  Hebe  has  not  this  tenacity  of 
soul-grasp.  She  is  all  love,  but  loves  as  the  angels  love.  She 
would  look  through  her  tears  into  the  face  of  life's  greatest 
sorrow  with  a  smile  of  seraphic  resignation.  She  is  all  gentle 
ness,  love,  and  beauty.  No  renunciation,  no  process  of  suffering 
or  growth  has  made  her  what  she  is.  Thus  she  was  born. 
Such  a  being  would  not  satisfy  me  now ;  yet  after  a  great 
storm  of  soul  I  can  imagine  how  I  might  find  heavenly  rest  and 
peace  gazing  on  such  a  face ;  imagine  with  what  warmth  of 


Victoire. 

healing  the  celestial  sunlight  of  such  a  spirit  would  fall  on  the 
ruins  of  my  own,  tilling  me  with  tenderest  affection,  yet 
kindling  not  a  grand  inspiration." 

Hen  11  was  filled  with  surprise  and  satisfaction  when  he 
learned  that  my  long-lost  picture  was  in  the  possession  of 
Moncrieffe.  He  accompanied  me  to  the  sumptuous  private 

parlor  in  the  Hotel  St. where  it  hung.  When  it  was 

first  revealed,  amid  its  softening  drapery,  he  manifested  a 
degree  of  emotion  rarely  visible  in  him.  The  face  of  Beatrice, 
of  Frederick,  the  memories  so  suddenly  evoked  by  the  pre 
sence  of  those  long-lost  faces,  so  strangely  grouped  in  a 
strange  land;  Frederick's  death,  my  departure,  all  came 
back  to  him  so  vividly,  so  unexpectedly,  that  for  a  moment  he 
seemed  lost.  Then  he  took  my  hand  almost  impulsively  as 
he  said : 

"My  poor  child,  then  this  is  that  long  year's  work,  just 
completed  when  disease  and  madness  overtook  you.  It  is 
noble.  It  is  worthy  of  a  great  genius,  of  a  great  soul.  I 
look  at  it,  and  live  over  again  my  lost  youth.  No  picture 
ever  moved  me  like  this.  Frederick,  my  brother  ;  Beatrice, 
my  sister;  Victoire,  my  wife— all  here!  Frederick  dying! 
It  seems  as  if  I  was  parting  with  him  over  again."  He 
looked  down  into  my  face.  Again  I  caught  a  glimpse  o'f 
the  deep  valley  of  tender  love  far  down  into  his  nature.  My 
heart  yearned  towards  him.  Oh,  why  did  he  not  draw  my 
soul  thus  near  to  him  always ! 

I  looked  up — Moncrieffe  was  gazing  at  us. 

He  said  :  "  Rochelle,  if  you  think  so  much  of  this  picture, 
take  it.  However  much  I  desire  or  need  it,  I  am  unwilling 
to  monopolize  anything  that  does  not  belong  to  me.  Take 
the  picture,  and  hang  it  up  at  Bel  Eden." 

"  I  am  sure  that  the  picture  belongs  to  you,"  said  Henri. 
"As  it  is  not  mine,  Moncrieffe,  I  would  rather  that  you 
should  own  it  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  No,  I  have  more 
than  a  picture  ;  I  am  not  going  to  rob  yon  of  that.  Besides, 
there  is  your  own  face  in  it.  It  is  not  strange  that  every 
person  and  shade  of  that  scene  was  so  indelibly  impressed  on 
her  mind.  It  is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  she 
should  have  remembered  and  painted  you,  appearing  at  that 
moment  as  you  did.  It  is  strange  that  you  of  all  the  in- 
habitants  of  the  earth  should  have  come  into  possession  of 
the  picture.  Life  is  full  of  remarkable  coincidences." 

It'  Moncrieffe  felt  any  dissatisfaction  at  the  very  practical 
way  in  which  Henri  disposed  of  the  fact  of  his  face  being  in 


Society.  317 

the  picture,  he  did  not  express  any.  He  treated  me  now  as 
he  did  upon  all  occasions,  simply  as  the  wife  of  his  friend. 
While  he  maintained  these  distant  relations,  he  evidently  felt 
under  no  obligation  to  reveal  a  past  experience.  I  was 
conscious  of  carrying  nothing  in  my  heart  which  I  was 
either  ashamed  or  afraid  to  confess,  but  I  had  a  great 
dread  of  making  myself  absurd  in  the  eyes  of  Henri. 
It  always  piqued  me  a  little  when  he  laughed  and  called 
me  romantic.  I  was  constantly  endeavoring  to  make  myself 
practical  in  his  sight.  It  would  have  been  a  great  relief 
could  I  have  told  him  how  Moncrieffe  had  once  grown  into 
my  life.  But  I  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  be  willing  to 
make  myself  appear  ridiculous  to  him,  as  I  knew  that  I  should, 
tell  that  story  as  best  I  might.  I  could  not  tell  him,  but  I 
would  put  it  far  away  from  me.  I  would  fill  my  life  so  full 
that  I  should  have  neither  time  nor  room  for  that  memory. 
I  would — yes,  I  would  do  right.  Thus  I  reasoned.  Mon 
crieffe  never  sought  me.  Politeness  obliged  him  to  accept 
a  portion  of  the  many  invitations  lavished  upon  him  by  Henri, 
but  he  by  no  means  availed  himself  of  the  privilege  offered 
by  his  host,  "  to  consider  our  house  his  home."  He  yielded 
to  the  entreaties  of  his  many  friends,  opened  a  law  office,  and 
distinguished  himself  for  ability  in  the  fulfilment  of  public 
duties  with  an  ease  which  astonished  many  in  that  brilliant 
circle,  who  had  known  him  only  as  a  gentleman  of  graceful 
leisure,  a  master  of  the  accomplishments  of  life.  This  was 
the  state  of  affairs  in  our  little  world  when  the  gay  winter 
season  of  the  metropolis  began. 

After  all,  it  was  a  natural  metamorphosis  which  changed 
the  nun-artist  of  Mrs.  Skinher's  attic,  the  young  toiling 
designer  of  the  "  comfortable  home,"  into  the  woman  of 
society,  wearing  her  crown  of  success  as  regally  as  if  she  had 
placed  it  on  her  head  with  her  own  hands.  Yet,  what  was 
the  volatile  mass,  the  glittering  crowd  to  me  ?  They  were 
fellow-creatures,  nothing  more.  For  their  burden  of  foibles, 
folly,  and  sorrow,  which  we  shared  together,  I  had  abundant 
pity  ;  for  everything  else  I  despised  them.  I  was  well  aware 
that  it  was  not  me  but  the  golden  accidents  of  my  life  which 
made  them  flatter  and  follow  me.  Victoire,  the  unknown 
artist,  might  have  painted  on  to  her  dying  day  unbefriended  ; 
Vietoire,  the  designer,  might  have  died  of  poverty  and  star 
vation  for  all  of  this  fickle  crowd.  A  few  might  have  pitied 
as  a  beggar  one  whom  they  now  sought  as  a  peer  ;  but  they 
would  not  have  treated  her  with  the  consideration  of  an 


oi8  Victoire. 

equal.  Oh,  no ;  she  had  no  position  then.  I  knew  that 
Madame  Rochelle  was  not  better,  not  more  a  lady  than  that 
young  Victoire.  The  attentions  which  would  not  have  been 

fiven  to  her,  were  yet  lavished  upon  Madame  Rochelle, 
could  fairly  estimate  now.  I  knew  precisely  how  much 
they  were  worth.  I  had  never  been  dependent  upon  pro 
miscuous  society  for  happiness,  and  could  well  afford  to 
be  good-natured  while  I  measured  its  favors.  I  had  no 
fault  to  find  with  it ;  it  gave  me  all  that  I  asked — entertain 
ment  and  an  interesting  source  of  study.  Besides,  .it  is 
vulgar  and  ill-natured  to  be  always  grumbling  at  the  world. 
Society  is  only  accumulated  humanity ;  we  must  accept  it  as 
we  ought  each  individual  human  creature,  loving  its  virtues, 
forgiving  its  sins,  taking  care  to  divest  ourselves  of  the  very 
faults  which  we  are  so  willing  liberally  to  condemn.  Society, 
in  its  broad  significance,  is  a  word  of  vague  import,  but  its 
rbot  lies  near  the  surface  of  life,  and  means  only  companion. 
So  the  struggles  of  the  race  in  this  age  and  all  others  to 
establish  a  standard  of  the  best  society,  have  been  only  human 
hearts  seeking  the  best  companionship,  its  type  varying  with 
races,  climes,  and  customs. 

Louis  Fourteenth  thought  that  he  had  found  it  when  the 
genius  of  Boileau,  Racine,  Sevign6 — the  eloquence  of  Bos- 
suet,  the  saintliness  of  Fenelon,  the  beauty  and  wit  of  Pompa 
dour  and  de  Maintenon,  reflected  splendor  upon  the  court 
of  Versailles.  The  high-bom  coterie  of  the  famous  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet,  with  its  immaculate  purity  and  inexpressible 
nonsense,  thought  that  the  best  society  of  the  world  was  shut 
within  its  walls.  So  thought  Charles  the  Second  amid  his 
court  of  lewd  beauties ;  so  thinks  Victoria  to-day  in  the 
virtuous  palace  of  Windsor ;  and  of  the  same  mind  is  Mrs. 
Potiphar  in  the  Avenue,  and  Mrs.  Codfish,  whose  wardrobe 
has  not  yet  lost  the  odor  of  beer  contracted  by  a  long  residence 
in  the  Bowery.  In  a  commercial  metropolis,  vulgarity  tries 
haul  to  bear  the  palm  of  the  best  society.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wholesale  never  invite  to  their  soirees  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Retail. 
No ;  they  snub  them  upon  all  conspicuous  occasions,  and  in 
vite  only  to  their  mansion  the  relations  of  Mrs.  Extensive 
Jobber,  and  gentlemen  distinguished  in  the  professions.  Mrs. 
Wholesale  is  sure  that  she  has  all  the  "best  society."  Mrs. 
Pedant  allows  no  one  to  darken  her  threshold,  save  the  lions 
of  the  literati ;  she  of  course  has  only  the  "  best  society." 
Mrs.  Ton  admits  only  the  rich,  no  matter  how  ignorant 
boorish,  vulgar ;  if  they  are  only  rich,  rich  enough  to  sport 


Society.  319 

coach  and  livery,  they  are  the  very  "best  society."  When 
these  distinguished  representatives  of  the  "  best  society" 
cross  by  accident  each  other's  orbits,  it  is  amusing  to  a  spec 
tator  to  see  them  stare  at  each  other  with  eyes  askance;  to 
hear  Mrs^VVholesale  whisper  to  her  bosom  friend  Mrs.  Ex 
tensive  Jobber  :  "  See  Mrs.  Retail,  that  dowdy  woman  !  She 
docs  not  belong  to  our  set." 

Thank  God,  amid  a  vast  deal  of  shallowness  and  falseness, 
there  are  homes  in  New  York — beautiful,  holy  homes.  In 
them  are  luminous  brains,  lovely  faces,  loving  hearts,  dis 
pensing  all  catholic  hospitalities,  all  gracious,  tender  charities. 
They  are  the  rare  magnets  who  draw  about  them  the  "  best 
society,"  and  a  gifted,  noble  American — the  only  man  in  the 
land  who  has  depicted  its  society  with  both  infinite  truth  and 
infinite  grace — has  told  us  what  that  "  best  society"  is — "  the 
men  who  mould  the  time,  who  refresh  our  faith  in  heroism 
and  virtue,  who  make  Plato,  and  Zeno,  and  Shakspeare,  and 
all  Shakspeare's  gentlemen  possible  again.  The  women 
whose  beauty,  and  sweetness,  and  dignity,  and  high  accom 
plishments  and  grace,  make  us  understand  Greek  mythology, 
and  weaken  our  desire  to  have  some  glimpses  of  the  most 
famous  women  of  history.  The  '  best  society'  is  that  in 
which  the  virtues  are  most  shining,  which  is  the  most 
charitable,  forgiving,  long-suffering,  modest  and  innocent." 
An  easy  fortune,  poetic  surroundings,  opportunities  for  wide 
culture  which  wealth  can  give,  are  certainly  more  favorable 
to  a  rich,  harmonious  development  of  mind  and  person  than 
the  blighting  air  of  poverty.  But  if  poverty  tends  to  distort 
and  depress  the  souls  of  its  finer  victims,  great  affluence 
tempts  its  recipients  with  enervation,  artificiality,  a  false, 
hollow  existence.  Only  a  noble  soul  will  live  a  simple,  sin 
cere,  contrite  life,  amid  the  frivolity,  the  shams,  the  hypocrisy, 
of  purely  fashionable  society.  Such  souls  are  sometimes 
forced  by  circumstances  into  these  circles.  All  who  compose 
the  world's  gay  multitudes  are  neither  heartless  nor  false. 
Here  I  found  divinely-inspired  souls,  whose  feet  touched  the 
flower  bedizened  path  of  fashion,  but  whose  eyes  were 
kindled  with  the  light  of  the  empyrean ;  men  who  did  not 
disgrace  the  likeness  of  God ;  women  whose  souls  were 
unsullied  white,  whose  eyes  were  like  the  evening  star,  whose 
vestal  beauty  and  supernal  grace  saved  Sodom,  and 
atoned  for  half  the  folly  of  the  denizens  of  Vanity'  Fair. 
1  found  the  "  best  society"  when  I  found  the  highest  com 
panionship,  amid  the  few  who  met  in  sincerity,  simplicity, 


320  Victoire. 

sympathy,  and  charity,  whether  they  met  in  lowly  homes  or 
gorgeous  palaces. 

The  Van  Ostrands  were  true  metropolitans,  holding  allegi 
ance  to  no  particular  clique  or  "  set."  One  was  sure  to  see  at 
their  receptions  and  soirees  representatives  from  the  world  of 
religion,  art,  literature,  science,  philanthropy,  fashion  ;  and 
at  their  house  one  night  I  met  an  old  acquaintance.  We 
went  early — I  am  not  afraid  to  go  early  to  a  fashionable  party. 
You  who  have  such  a  reputation  for  fashion  to  sustain  that 
you  never  dare  show  your  face  before  ten  o'clock,  cannot 
know  how  much  you  lose.  Go  early  to  a  party,  if  you  want 
to  sip  its  dew  and  bloom.  Go  early,  and  you  will  breathe  the 
air  before  it  becomes  fever ;  you  can  use  your  eyes  in  the  gas 
light  before  it  burns  them  like  fire  ;  you  can  gaze  at  pictures 
and  marvels  of  art  before  they  are  lost  in  crinoline;  you  can 
inhale  the  breath  of  flowers  before  they  wither ;  you  can 
receive  the  smiles  of  your  hostess  before  she  has  grown  weary 
or  nervous  about  her  spoons  and  carpets ;  if  there  are  any 
children  in  the  house,  you  can  have  a  chance  to  kiss  them 
before  they  are  thrust  out  of  sight.  If  you  are  so  fashionable 
that  you  must  lose  all  this,  I  am  sorry  for  you.  We  went 
early ;  the  dancers  had  not  come,  but  through  the  great,  illu 
minated  halls  floated  the  heavenly  music  of  Dodworth's  band, 
playing  "  When  the  Swallows  Homeward  Fly."  The  lofty 
drawing-rooms  were  as  enticing  as  wealth,  taste,  splendor, 
light,  warmth,  and  genial  hearts  could  make  them.  Through 
their  ample  length  floated  a  thousand  rich  odors  from  the 
open  conservatory,  whose  air  was  sown  thick  with  lemons 
flushed  with  the  tawny  gold  of  clustering  orange  trees.  Gor 
geous  exotics,  sweet  home  flowers,  plashing  waters,  golden 
fish,  singing  birds,  made  the  charmed  life  of  this  tropical 
bower  hid  in  the  heart  of  a  palace  of  stone. 

A  rare  poetic  hour  in  this  mimic  paradise,  and  the  guests 
began  to  flow  in.  Fair  young  sylphs  in  snowy  "  clouds"  and 
misty  mantles,  in  robes  of  lustrous  silk  and  ethereal  tulle, 
floated  away  to  the  dressing-room,  and  from  thence  to  the 
dancing  hall ;  slender  gentlemen  in  flashing  pumps  and  virgin 
kids,  flew  after  them.  Into  the  drawing-rooms  began  to  flow 
all  the  component  parts  of  a  brilliant  metropolitan  assembly. 
There  were  people  distinguished  for  their  brains,  and  people 
equally  distinguished  for  their  want  of  them.  There  were  ora 
tors,  philosophers,  scholars,  painters,  poets,  and  singers;  bloom 
ing  matrons, pause  belles,  and  pretty  maidens  whose  mammas 
would  not  let  them  dance.  There  were  gentlemen  who  wrote 


Society.  321 

reviews,  gentlemen  who  edited  newspapers ;  antiquated  ladies 
who  wrote  novels,  and  school-girls  who  wrote  essays  from  the 
models  of  Addison.  There  were  authors  who  touched  the 
tips  of  each  other's  fingers,  stared  into  each  other's  faces, 
praised  each  other's  last  new  book — afterwards  going  away  and 
slandering  the  same.  There  were  seers  and  sybils,  inspired 
men  and  women,  beautiful  and  loyal,  whose  souls  drew  near 
together  on  one  plane,  loving  each  other  then,  and  loving 
each  other  aftenvards.  Miss  Poddil  Puff  herself  was  there, 
a  young  lady  who  contributed  to  the  magazines,  and  had 
written  a  book ;  whose  ejaculations,  "  O  moon !"  and  "  O 
music !"  were  decidedly  Ossianic ;  whose  desire  for  notoriety 
was  so  rampant,  that  she  wrote  elaborate  notices  of  her  own 
effusions,  and  particularly  flattering  descriptions  of  herself, 
and  paid  the  daily  journals  for  printing  them.  Mr.  Dante 
Blonde  was  there ;  a  girlish  youth,  who  had  been  told  that 
he  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  his  illustrious  Italian  name 
sake,  and  therefore  quoted  his  poetry  at  great  length,  rolling 
up  his  eyes  after  the  most  accepted  model  of  high  poetic  art. 
Morna  was  there,  wearing  a  dress  of  opal  velvet  with  a  scar 
let  flower  in  her  lustrous  hair.  Moncrieffe  was  there. 

In  the  course  of  the*  evening  I  found  myself  pressed  into 
close  proximity  with  Mrs.  Automaton  and  Mrs.  Flirtfan,  two 
ladies  of  the  highest  ton  in  the  world  of  insipid  nonsense. 
Mrs.  Flirtfan  was  one  of  those  flimsy  bits  of  femininity  who 
make  sensible  women  ashamed  that  they  are  women.  One  of 
those  little,  fluttering,  feathery  women,  all  covered  with  flying 
ends  of  ribbon  ;  head,  tongue,  and  fan  always  going.  Mrs. 
Flirtfan  affected  naivete.  She  thought  that  nothing  made  a 
lady  so  irresistible  to  gentlemen  as  to  prove  by  her  conversa 
tion  that  she  knew  nothing.  "  Gentlemen  so  admired  sweet, 
dependent  women."  "  I  am  a  mere  child,  you  know"  (she  was 
over  forty),  she  would  lisp  to  some  lord  of  creation,  archly 
peering  up  through  the  feathers  of  her  fan,  perfectly  sure 
that  she  had  made  herself  transcendently  fascinating,  which 
was  her  highest  ambition.  Mrs.  Automaton  was  not  without 
her  great  object  in  life  ;  it  was  to  make  herself  as  unnatural 
as  possible  ;  and,  more  fortunate  than  most  people,  she  attain 
ed  her  object.  To  be  possessor  of  an  "  air,"  was  not  that 
enough  to  live  for  ?  You  might  have  injured  Mrs.  Automa 
ton  in  many  ways,  and  she  would  have  forgiven  you,  remem 
bering  you  especially  on  the  next  Sabbath,  when,  kneeling  in 
church,  she  murmured  over  her  gold-clasped  prayer-book, 
"  Good  Lord,  deliver  us."  But  she  would  have  been  too  much 

14* 


322 


Victoire. 


disgusted  to  have  ever  forgiven,  had  you  in  her  presence 
descended  sufficiently  from  your  high-bred  grace  to  have 
manifested  natural  emotion.  Mrs.  Automaton  had  charity 
for  all  people  but  -"gushing"  ones;  persons  who  had  t{je  inele 
gant,  rustic  habit  of  appearing  affectionate.  It  was  the 
Christian  duty  of  every  man  and  woman  so  fortunate  as  to 
have  been  born  to  the  best  society,  to  cultivate  a  "man 
ner."  . 

"  Do  not  stir,  dear,"  she  said,  magnificently,  to  Mrs.  Flirtfan  ; 
"  our  friends  will  come  to  us." 

"  Stir !  Dear  me,  no  ;  I  shan't  stir  till  we  pass  to  the  supper 
rooms.  I  am  always  afraid  that  I  shall  be  introduced  to  some 
body  who  isn't  in  our  set ;  and  it  is  so  dreadful,  you  know  ; 
because  then  I  have  to  snub  them  when  I  meet  them  some 
where  else.  One  never  knows  whom  they  will  meet  at  the  Van 
Ostrands'.  They  will  do  as  they  please,  and  yet  you  know, 
Mrs.  Automaton,  we  have  to  come,  because  they  are  the  Van 
Ostrands ;"  and  the  little  fan  began  to  flutter  spitefully. 

"  Mrs.  Flirtfan,  that  young  lady  in  the  opal  velvet  dress  is 
very  distingue,"  observed  Mrs.  Automaton,  with  an  air  of  pro 
found  erudition. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Automaton,  do  you  know  what  you  are  say 
ing  ?  Why,  that  is  Miss  Avondale.  She  is  only  a  great 
singer.  It's  splendid  to  go  to  the  Academy  and  hear  her, 
where  we  pay  her  for  amusing  us ;  but  oh  dear,  think  of  it,  of 
meeting  our  artists  at  our  reception  on  the  Avenue  just  as  if 
they  were  on  our  level !  Why,  Mrs.  Automaton,  I  have 
heard  it  from  the  most  undeniable  authority  that  this  Miss 
Avondale  came  up  from  the  depths  of  poverty.  I  have  heard" 
— and  here  the  little  fan  flew  close  to  the  little  mouth,  which 
whispered  ominously — "I  have  heard  that  once  she  even 
sewed  for  her  living  !  Oh  dear,  Mrs.  Automaton,  isn't  it  almost 
insulting,  to  oblige  us  to  breathe  in  the  same  room  with  such 
a  person,  just  as  if  she  was  our  equal  ?  The  Van  Ostrands 
are  so  queer — and  yet  you  know  that  they  are  the  Van  Os 
trands." 

"  Let  us  forgive  them,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Automaton,  with 
tin-  august  tone  of  an  injured  queen.  "Our  friend  M.  Peti- 
man  is  approaching." 

"  There,  if  he  isn't  speaking  to  that  Miss  Avondale,"  inter 
rupted  Mrs.  Flirtfan,  her  fan  twitching  most  nervously. 
"  Of  course  he  doesn't  know.  It's  our  duty  to  inform  him, 
Mrs.  Automaton.  Dear  M.  Petiman,  he  has  such  a  sweet, 
heavenly,  condescending  smile.  Oh  dear,"  I  wish  I  could  smile 


Society.  323 

so  divinely.  Oh,  did  you  ever  see  such  an  ineffable  ' air'  and 
such  a  lovely  bow  ?-«-and  all  wasted  on  a  sewing  girl.  Oh  dear, 
Mrs.  Automaton,  it  is  dreadful !" 

"  Yes,  love,  it  is  dreadful,"  solemnly  echoed  Mrs.  Automa 
ton,  with  the  look  of  a  sphinx.  Overcome  by  their  reflections, 
the  ladies  spoke  not  again  till  their  friend  M.  Petiman  had 
wormed  his  way  to  their  side,  making  his  lowest  obeisance. 

"  Ah,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  said  that  gentleman  to 
his  doting  friends.  "  I  have  been  a  long  time  reaching  you. 
One  finds  so  many  people  at  Mr.  Van  Ostrand's  whom  they 
must  speak  to — ah — you  understand.  You  observed  me 
speaking  to  Miss  Avondale,  our  gifted  American  cantatrice. 
She  is  a  truly  magnificent  singer,  she  is  a  great  genius — 
but " 

"But" reiterated  Mrs.  Automaton,  drawing  up  in 

owlish  ^Hite. 

"  But" — simpered  Mrs.  Flirtfan,  "  Oh  dear,  M.  Petiman,  I 
am  so  glad  you  know"  (and  the  fan  began  to  coquet).  "It 
really  made  me  quite  sick,  thinking  that  I  must  as  a  duty 
inform  you  of  her  history." 

"  Ah,  thoughtful  as  ever ;  yes,  very  kind  of  you,  Mrs. 
Flinfan.  But  you  know  I  make  it  a  point  to  ascertain  the 
history  of  all  whom  I  meet  in  society.  It  is  very  easy,  very 
easy.  A  few  incisive  questions  are  all-sufficient.  These  are 
due  to  society  and  due  to  ourselves.  Ah,  Mrs.  Flirtfan  ? 
But  as  I  was  observing,  this  Miss  Avondale  is  truly  an  estima 
ble  young  lady  ;  she  has  great  genius,  but  like  all  persons  who 
have  struggled  through  disadvantageous  circumstance.s  to 
success,  she  places  a  somewhat  undue  estimate  upon  herself, 
and  is  inclined  to  think  that  her  powers  are  not  fully  appre 
ciated  by  the  public.  I  never  heard  her  say  so,  but  that  is 
my  suspicion.  For  this  reason,  I  take  great  pains  to  smile 
upon  her  whenever  I  meet  her  in  the  '  best  society.'  It  is 
better  to  humor,  even  to  natter  such  people,  you  know,  when 
you  see  that  the  great  public  awards  them  a  high  position  for 
genius,  ah,  Mrs.  Flirtfan  ?" 

He  told  the  truth  when  he  called  it  a  "  suspicion."  It  was  a 
suspicion,  too,  which  had  foundation  only  in  his  own  craven 
mind.  He  could  have  said  nothing  more  false.  Morna  was 
too  proud  to  seek  approbation,  and  too  humble  to  feel  that 
she  deserved  it.  She  was  astonished  and  gratified  as  a  child 
for  the  praise  awarded  her.  She  associated  no  sense  of  personal 
merit  with  the  great  gifts  lent  her,  which  she  never  felt  were 
h&rs;  and  I  who  knew  her  best,  knew  well  the  crushing 


324 


Victoire. 


weight  of  self-distrust  which  she  carried  in  her  heart.  She 
needed  encouragement  as  the  flowers  need  dew,  but  she  never 
courted  flattery  nor  demanded  praise. 

This  speech  was  like  what  I  first  knew  of  M.  Petiman. 
He  was  a  little  too  amiable,  a  vast  deal  too  polite  to  be 
openly  slanderous.  It  was  so  much  more  graceful  to  be  slyly 
invidious  ;  so  much  more  high-bred  to  drop  a  covert  innuendo, 
to  breathe  a  gentle  insinuation  ;  so  much  more  magnanimous 
to  baptize  a  name  with  praises — at  the  last  pouring  a  drop, 
only  a  drop,  of  poison  into  the  honeyed  flood ;  that  one 
drop  deadly  enough  to  murder  all  the  sweet  faith  which  you 
were  willing  to  cherish  in  the  nobility  of  the  man. 

M.  Petiman  could  have  said  nothing  which  would  have 
moved  me  more.  In  indignation  I  turned  towards  Mornav  Ire 
died  before  that  pure  brow,  those  holy  eyes.  She  walked  far 
apart  from  those  drivelling  souls ;  their  miserable  misapprehen 
sion,  their  petty  thrusts,  could  never  reach  her. 

"  Oh,  M.  Petiman,  so  many  engagements,  so  many  engage 
ments — engagements  to  parties  a  week  deep  ;  but  I  was  so 
sorry,  so  sorry  not  to  have  been  at  Mrs.  Petiman's  soire'e  last 
evening,"  said  Mrs.  Flirtfan. 

"  Ah,  we  had  such  a  charming  time,"  said  the  amiable  gentle 
man  ;  "  such  a  charming  time.  My  friend  Lady  Magnificent 
says  that  she  has  seen  nothing  so  brilliant  this  side  of  the 
water.  There  were  my  distinguished  friends  Lord  and  Lady 
Poodle,  the  great  philosopher  Noodle,  the  sweet  poet  Simple, 
the  philanthropist  Wimple,  and  so  many  rising  stars.  Ah, 
you  should  have  been  there,  Mrs.  Flirtfan." 

"These  little  people,  they  do  not  interest  me  ;  they  cannot 
even  amuse  me,"  said  Moncrieffe,  approaching  my  side.  His 
fastidious  ear  had  caught  M.  Petiman's  last  mellifluous  sen 
tences.  The  sight  of  Mrs.  Automaton  and  Mrs.  Flirtfan  was 
sufficient.  "  By  the  way,  I  heard  M.  Petiman  ask  Dr.  Ro- 
chelle  for  the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  his  wife,"  Moncrieffe 
continued.  "I  only  marvel  how  you  have  escaped  so  long. 
I  should  not  know  New  York  society  if  I  did  not  see  M.  Peti 
man's  face  wherever  I  go." 

He  was  not  mistaken ;  in  a  few  moments  Henri,  who  had 
been  busy  with  a  group  of  savants,  drew  near,  accompanied 
with  the  gentleman  of  many  smiles.  He  did  not  dream  that 
I  had  spoken  to  M.  Petiman  before,  although  he  knew  that  I 
had  seen  him  many  times,  and  it  was  very  apparent  that  gen 
tleman  recognised  no  former  acquaintance  in  Madame  Ro- 
chelle.  After  the  introduction,  I  informed  M.  Petiman  that  I 


Society.  325 

had  had  the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  before.  His  suqjrised 
look  seemed  to  say,  "Is  it  possible  that  I  ever  forget  one  in 
any  way  distinguished  ?"  I  informed  him  that  M.  Petiman 
was  the  only  gentleman  to  whom  I  brought  letters  of  intro 
duction  from  France.  He  probably  did  not  recognise  the 
young  artist  girl,  Victoire  Vernoid.  He  remembered  her  now, 
as  his  face  plainly  indicated. 

"  Ah,  he  recollected  that  years  ago  he  had  had  the  distin 
guished  honor.  He  remembered  with  sorrow  that  the  multi 
plicity  of  his  engagements  had  prevented  him  from  visiting 
Miss  Vernoid's  studio  with  Mrs.  Petiman,  a  lady  devoted  to 
art,  as  he  most  fervently  desired.  Would  Madame  Rochelle 
pardon  ?" 

Madame  Rochelle  informed  him  that  she  had  nothing  to 
pardon.  She  was  well  aware  that  M.  Petiman  regarded  Vic 
toire  Vernoid  as  a  romantic  adventurer,  and  treated  her  ac 
cordingly.  Had  he  considered  that  she  was  a  young  girl, 
Eoor,  alone,  exposed  to  temptation  and  danger  in  a  strange 
md,  needing  encouragement  and  counsel,  she  was  willing  to 
believe  that  he  would  have  given  it,  and,  by  a  few  kind  words, 
helped  her  to  have  helped  herself.  I  did  not  dip  my  arrow 
in  venom ;  I  sent  it  with  a  smile.  M.  Petiman  needed  it.  It 
reached  its  mark,  and  I  meant  that  it  should.  M.  Petiman 
continued  to  smile,  yet  his  manner  had  lost  somewhat  of  its 
Parisian  ease.  Evidently  he  did  not  feel  entirely  comfortable 
in  the  presence  of  Madame  Rochelle.  As  soon  as  practicable, 
he  bowed  himself  out  of  her  sight.  There  are  many  M.  Peti- 
mans  in  the  world. 


TEMPTATION. 

Did  you  ever  dare  to  look  into  the  face  of  a  great  tempta 
tion,  declaring :  "  I  will  look,  yet  not  be  tempted  ?"  Did 
you  ever  persist  in  gazing  into  the  eyes  of  the  fascinator,  say 
ing  :  "  I  will  gaze,  yet  not  be  fascinated  ?"  Many  have  said 
it ;  many  have  fallen  because  they  said  it.  Often  we  are 
taught  by  the  saddest  experience,  that  we  can  never  have  the 
power  to  do  absolutely  right  while  we  make  the  slightest 
compromise  with  wrong.  The  flowers  which  ravish  us  with 
their  perfume,  distil  the  deadly  gas  which  destroys  life  ;  so 
there  arex  souls  which,  unawares,  poison  us  with  their  very 
sweetness. 


326  Victoire. 

In  the  silence  of  my  soul,  before  God,  I  had  prayed  for 
power  to  make  not  only  the  acts  of  my  life,  but  the  words  of 
my  mouth  and  the  meditations  of  my  heart,  acceptable  in  His 
si<jht.  I  had  vowed  to  do  right,  and  only  right,  so  tar  as 
knowledge  was  given  me.  Complete  occupation,  the  absorb- 
in  <;  world,  would  leave  no  space  for  him,  I  reasoned. 

He  possessed  the  rare  grace  of  perfect  manners,  which  in 
him  was  less  the  consummation  of  art  than  the  harmonious 
expression  of  a  rich,  many-sided  nature;  the  result  of  affluent 
culture,  of  aesthetic  taste,  of  the  finest  perception,  and  a  gentle 
heart.  So  clear  were  his  intuitions,  so  quick  his  sympathy, 
that  he  adapted  himself  almost  involuntarily  to  the  moods  and 
emotions  of  his  companions,  and  thus  unconsciously  took 
possession  of  their  hearts. 

As  I  stood  apart,  I  saw  fair  cheeks  flush,  lovely  eyes  soften, 
and  kindle,  and  deepen  under  the  deeper  eyes  reading  their 
sweetest  secrets.  I  heard  common  tongues  grow  eloquent  in 
replying  to  one  who  could  create  and  quicken  inspiration.  I 
saw  him  filling  the  r61e  of  a  man  of  the  world  ;  yet,  however 
surrounded,  felt  not  a  pang  of  jealousy.  The  story  which  his 
lips  had  uttered  once,  had  never  been  repeated — that  was  not 
necessary.  I  did  not  know  how  deep  was  its  impression.  I 
was  not  aware  that  I  was  living  in  the  silent  consciousness  of 
my  rich  possession.  To  those  who  love  each  other,  the  uni 
verse  is  articulate,  and  breathes  a  language  for  them  alone. 
Language  in  its  subtlest  phrases  sheathes  a  meaning  within  a 
meaning,  never  misunderstood  by  the  quickened  heart,  which 
is  its  unerring  interpreter.  It  was  enough  for  me  that  occa 
sionally  I  could  stand  apart  and  listen  to  the  tones  of  that 
alluring  voice,  although  it  fell  upon  other  ears  ;  that  the  elo 
quent  eyes,  the  books  which  he  read,  the  music  which  he 
selected,  the  flowers  which  he  placed  in  my  hand,  all  con 
veyed  a  meaning  understood  by  my  heart  alone.  If  it  was 
love,  it  was  love  unuttered.  It  was  love,  without  one  of 
love's  privileges ;  no  meetings,  no  caresses,  no  tokens.  I  was 
fortified  against  visible  dangers,  careful  that  no  flaw  should  be 
made  in  the  wall  of  propriety.  I  had  yet  to  learn  that  the 
most  insidious  and  dangerous  of  all  love  is  that  which  steals  to 
the  heart  through  the  enchanted  avenue  of  the  imagination, 
kindling  in  its  passage  with  all  ideal  beauty,  that  love  which 
iH-vi-r  otl'eixls  by  license,  never  repels  by  grossness;  which 
does  not  express  itself  in  words,  but  in  things  lying  deeper 
than  all  words — the  involuntary  language  of  the  heart,  breath 
ing  itself  into  a  thousand  acts,  speaking  through  every  glance 


Temptation.  327 

of  the  silent  eyes.  A  sensitive,  susceptible  heart  can  live  on 
this  delicious,  yet  often  deadly  aliment,  asking  nothing  more. 
This  is  the  love  of  woman  ;  how  different  from  the  love  of 
man,  which,  in  proportion  as  it  deepens  and  absorbs,  maddens 
for  complete  possession  of  its  object. 

To  me  no  one  said,  beware.  Not  even  the  world,  with  its 
suspicious  eyes  and  hellish  tongues.  Mr.  Moncrieffe  was  the 
intimate  friend  of  Dr.  Rochelle.  Mr.  Moncrieffe  awarded  to 
Mrs.  Rochelle  the  courtesy  due  to  the  wife  of  his  friend.  That 
was  all  that  the  world  saw ;  that  was  all  that  there  was  for 
any  mortal  to  see.  Pray  do  not  fancy  it  an  uncommon  case. 
Looking  at  the  unruffled  surface  of  society,  what  do  you  know 
of  the  life  below,  of  the  wrecked  hearts,  of  the  dead  hopes 
buried  in  its  great  deep  ?  Could  the  electrical  cord  lying 
in  the  depth  of  the  main  become  impregnated  with  the  mes 
sages  of  men  and  nations,  it  would  transmit  them  without  a 
sound;  it  would  not  disturb  the  sunken  galleons,  nor  the 
moss-green  bones  lying  on  the  ocean's  oozy  floor.  The  gay 
inhabitants  of  the  coral  palaces,  the  great  tidal  waves  above, 
would  play  and  flow  as  if  no  messages  of  life  and  death 
thrilled  through  the  abyss  below.  Thus  from  being  to  being 
flow  the  electrical  currents,  bearing  the  subtle  messages  of 
hearts  in  silence.  Soul  speaks  to  soul  in  burning  syllables 
which  make  no  sound.  Love  and  tragedy  meet  in  the  eyes 
of  men  and  women,  while  the  ever  swelling  ocean  of  outer 
existence  rolls  on  unconscious  of  the  fiery  chord  of  life 
spanning  the  profounds  of  being  below.  I  knew  nothing 
of  this  then.  I  scarcely  knew  that  my  nature  was  filled  with 
a  new  inspiration,  that  the  old  ecstasy  in  life,  the  joy  in 
simple  breath,  had  come  back.  Rare  forms  and  faces  grew 
beneath  my  hand  almost  unconsciously.  My  work,  when 
completed,  astonished  myself;  I  could  not  realize  that  these 
creations  of  beauty  were  born  in  my  own  soul.  The  divine 
passion  within  made  every  form  in  nature  more  beautiful ; 
it  filled  my  heart  with  a  tenderness  for  all  living  creatures. 
Like  a  satisfied  child,  I  rested  in  the  soothing  arms  of  the 
present.  All  sunshine  seemed  around  me  and  in  me.  I  did 
not  see  the  little  cloud  growing  and  deepening,  which  soon, 
might  fall  upon  me  and  cover  me.  I  was  satisfied  in  the 
beautiful  now,  and  all  the  coming  to-morrows  seemed  only 
countless  links  in  the  golden  chain  lengthening  down  to  the 
doors  of  the  still  more  beautiful  to-be. 

Life  was  all  enkindled.     I  worshipped  all  that  was  highest 
and  fairest.    Through  one  glorious  human  personality,  I  fancied 


328  Victoire. 

that  I  drew  nearer  to  the  one  eternattioly  soul  of  love.  Why 
need  disenchantment  come  ?  Why  should  life  ever  be  any  dif 
ferent  ?  Rather,  why  should  the  beings  who  made  my  life  ever 
be  any  different  ?  Change  might  come  to  the  earth,  might 
touch  the  soul  of  nature  and  the  brows  of  men  ;  it  would  not 
reach  our  hearts.  Alas !  I  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  change 
which  blights  nature  and  withers  the  human  face,  is  not  half  so 
sad  as  that  change  which  makes  the  mutations  of  the  human 
heart.  The  gay  winter  went  by  on  wings.  With  the  ripening 
spring,  with  the  newly  quickened  life  which  comes  to  human 
beings,  with  the  birth  of  leaves  and  the  resurrection  of  the  flow 
ers,  I  marked  a  change  in  Moncrieffe.  Almost  imperceptible 
at  first,  it  became  more  and  more  painfully  apparent.  The  sha 
dow  of  a  deeper  sadness  brooded  in  his  eyes;  he  often  seemed 
listless,  absent,  or  else  he  was  feverishly  gay,  startlingly  bril 
liant.  The  graceful  poise,  the  healthful  repose  of  bis  manner, 
seemed  gone,  and  his  fitful  actions  gave  token  of  deep  rest 
lessness,  if  not  unhappiness. 

"I  wonder  what  ails  Moncrieffe?"  said  Henri  one  evening. 
"  I  used  to  think  that  he  had  no  moods.  That  was  one  rea 
son  why  I  liked  him.  I  knew  where  to  find  him.  He  was 
not  agreeable  one  day,  and  disagreeable  the  next.  But  he 
seems  moody  enough  now ;  and  once  or  twice  he  has  been 
really  cuttingly  sarcastic,  as  if  he  was  retaliating  upon  me  for 
some  injury  that  I  had  done  him.  He  seemed  to  regret  it 
immediately,  and  suddenly  became  so  kind,  of  course  I  did 
not  notice  it.  But  I  am  sure  of  one  thing,  he  has  some  trou 
ble  that  we  know  nothing  about.  It  is  not  all  sorrow  for  his 
wife,  I  know.  Poor  fellow  !  when  I  have  time  I  must  investi 
gate  and  find  out  what  is  the  matter." 

I  needed  not  to  investigate.  Henri's  words  were  to  me  a 
revelation.  From  that  hour  a  pain  ran  through  all  the  plea 
sure  which  had  once  been  untouched  when  I  met  Moncrieffe. 
I  knew  not  why,  but  before  I  was  aware,  the  innocent  ease, 
the  frank  intercourse  of  every-day  friendship  seemed  gone. 
True,  it  was  assumed,  but  it  was  no  longer  real.  I  could  no 
longer  look  into  his  face  unconsciously,  and  tnlk  innocently 
and  fearlessly  of  all  the  pleasant  nothings  of  daily  life.  No 
thing  which  he  said  or  did,  but  an  undefinable  atmosphere 
around  him,  seemed  to  forbid  it.  I  attempted  to  be  uncon 
scious  as  of  old,  yet,  without  the  slightest  idea  why,  only  suc 
ceeded  in  being  embarrassed  and  constrained  in  his  pre 
sence. 

He  was  now  to  me  a  conscious  and  troubled  thought,  so 


Temptation.  329 

conscious  that  the  attempt  to  put  it  away  seemed  useless.     I 
was  aware  of  this  ;  it  made  me  miserable. 

Again  it  was  June.  The  dark  shutters  and  massive  doors 
of  the  grim  mansion  in place  were  barred  for  the  sum 
mer,  and  we  had  come  back  to  Bel  Eden  and  its  roses.  The 
third  anniversary  of  our  marriage  came,  and  on  its  morning, 
after  an  accumulation  of  medical  lectures  and  scientific  en 
gagements  had  kept  him  dumb  and  absorbed  for  four  weeks, 
Henri  most  unexpectedly  announced  that  he  should  give  that 
entire  day  to  me.  The  day  was  as  divine  as  June  could  make 
it ;  we  spent  it  in  the  park  and  upon  the  river,  floating  away 
in  our  little  yacht  as  if  sailing  was  the  whole  of  life,  and  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  a  dry  world  of  business  on  shore. 
When  it  was  over,  we  took  our  tea  amid  the  fountains  and 
flowers. 

"  Now,"  said  Henri,  as  we  pledged  each  other  in  a  draught 
of  delicious  water,  "  Morna  and  Moncrieffe  ought  to  be  here 
to  drink  our  healths  in  Madeira  or  old  Bordeaux  or  this  cool 
crystal.  By  the  way,  don't  you  wish  that  they  would  love 
each  other,  Victoire  ?  They  would  make  a  most  magnificent 
couple !" 

"Yes,"  I  replied ;  "  I  would  rather  see  Morna  marry  Mon 
crieffe  than  any  one  else  in  the  world."  All  that  day  I  was 
happy  in  a  sunny  valley,  and  never  once  remembered  that  it 
lay  under  the  Alps.  The  next  day  came,  with  its  stiff,  blank, 
business  aspect,  and  I  saw  nothing  but  the  Alps,  although  it 
was  June.  The  same  week  was  to  bring  an  event  towards 
which  1  was  looking  with  the  most  intense  interest.  At  that 
time  Morna  was  to  bid  farewell  to  the  American  public  at  the 
Academy  of  Music  in  the  opera  of  Norma.  Morna  was 
tempted  to  appear  upon  the  lyric  stage  much  less  frequently 
than  her  admirers  wished.  Her  exacting  conscience  seemed 
better  satisfied  when  she  came,  without  a  single  stage  acces 
sory,  in  the  simple  yet  grand  character  of  Morna  Avondale. 
Yet  it  was  only  in  a  lofty  impersonation  in  which  she  could 
embody  the  great  emotions,  the  tragic  passions  of  the  human 
soul,  that  her  genius  could  find  its  broadest  scope  or  be  truly 
fathomed  or  measured.  The  opera  season  was  past ;  the  gay 
habitues  of  the  temple  of  music  were  beginning  to  disperse  in 
search  of  pleasure  on  the  hills  and  by  the  sea,  when  it  gave 
the  managers  "  great  pleasure  to  announce  the  farewell  benefit 
of  Miss  Morna  Avondale !"  Morna  was  to  spend  a  year  in 
Europe,  singing  and  studying  with  the  great  masters,  and 
when  she  returned,  Hope  was  to  come  with  her.  Great  was 


330 


Victoire. 


my  desire  to  accompany  her,  but  I  did  not  express  it,  for  I 
had  listened  to  the  reading  of  our  programme  long  before. 
Two  years  must  pass,  Henri  said,  before  he  should  have 
earned  the  right  to  a  year  of  leisure.  Then  he  intended  to 
place  his  large  practice  in  competent  hands,  and  we  would 
go  for  a  visit  to  Paris  and  Languedoc,  to  Florence  and  Rome. 

On  the  afternoon  preceding  the  benefit,  Henri  returned  to 
Bel  Eden  at  an  unusually  early  hour.  He  was  quite  unwell, 
he  said  ;  too  ill  to  attend  to  business,  and  had  come  home  to 
rest,  and  if  possible  recover  sufficiently  to  accompany  me  to 
the  Academy  in  the  evening.  It  was  not  strange  that  I  was 
slightly  alarmed  at  this  announcement,  for,  in  all  the  years  in 
which  I  had  known  him,  I  had  never  heard  him  complain  of 
the  slightest  indisposition,  and  had  often  thought  that  the 
beautiful  tenor  of  his  life  was  as  attributable  to  his  unbroken 
health  as  to  his  equable  temperament  and  harmonious  intel 
lect. 

"  It  is  only  a  slight  cold,"  he  said,  as  I  stood  bathing  his 
feverish  head  and  hands.  "  A  very  slight  affair,  yet  I  thought 
it  best  to  attend  to  it.  I  think  that  I  shall  be  well  enough  to 
go  to-night ;  yet  as  there  is  a  bare  possibility  that  the  fever 
might  increase,  I  told  Moncrieffe  to  drive  over  to  accompany 
you,  if  I  should  not  be  able  to  do  so.  I  am  resolved  that  you 
shall  not  be  disappointed." 

"  Why  did  you  ?"  I  asked.  "  I  do  not  want  to  go  without 
you."  .  * 

"  How  foolish,"  he  said,  "  for  you  to  deprive  yourself  of  a 
pleasure  which  you  have  set  your  whole  heart  upon,  because  I 
have  a  slight  cold,  and  am  fearful  of  contracting  more.  If 
I  was  very  ill,  it  would  be  a  different  matter.  Or  if  you  had 
an  indifferent  escort  it  would  alter  the  case.  But  I  would  trust 
yon  to  the  care  of  Moncrieffe  as  soon  as  to  my  own.  You  can 
afford  the  world  the  rare  sight  of  seeing  you  once  without 
your  husband!" 

"  How  disappointed  Morna  will  be,  and  I  cannot  half  enjoy 
the  music  if  you  are  not  there." 

I  uttered  the  simple  truth.  A  strange  apprehension  seemed 
to  fill  me  at  the  thought  of  going  without  him.  The  very  con 
sciousness  of  the  joy  which  Moncrieffe's  society  might  have 
given  me  under  other  circumstances,  made  it  a  pain  to  think 
of  it  in  the  present. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  am  disappointed  on  my  own  account; 
don't  make  me  disappointed  on  yours  also.  You  will  not  com 
pel  Moncrieffe  to  drive  over  here  for  nothing,  will  you  ?  Go 


Temptation.  331 

and  dress,  and  I  will  try  to  take  a  nap ;  afterwards  we  will 
decide  the  matter." 

I  went  to  my" dressing-room,  and  there  found  Azalie  stand 
ing,  lost  in  admiration  before  the  costume  which  she  had  laid 
out  for  me. 

Azalie  was  a  little  French  grisette  whom  the  hard  fortunes 
of  orphanhood  had  stranded  on  this  western  shore.  Henri 
found  her  in  a  wealthy  French  family,  in  which  he  was  medi 
cal  adviser,  where  she  tried  to  fill  the  double  office  of  child's 
nurse  and  lady's  maid.  Azalie  was  more  used  to  ribbons  than 
to  babies.  She  did  not  affect  the  latter,  but  doted  on  the 
former.  Azalie  was  cross  to  the  baby,  I  fear,  and  then  the 
gay  Mere  Fran$aise  was  cross  to  her  in  return.  At  any  rate, 
Azalie  followed  Henri  into  the  hall  one  morning,  weeping  bit 
terly.  "  Would  the  gentleman  pardon  her  ?  she  knew  no 
other  French  gentleman  or  she  would  not  trouble  him. 
Among  all  the  fine  families  which  he  visited,  did  the  gentle 
man  know  of  one  lady  who  had  no  babies,  and  was  never 
cross  ?" 

Henri  informed  her  that  he  did  not  know  any  lady  who  was 
never  cross,  but  he  knew  a  lady  that  had  no  babies,  and  who, 
if  she  indulged  in  the  feminine  felicity  of  being  cross  occa 
sionally,  it  took  little  to  make  her  good-natured. 

"  Oh,  if  Azalie  could  only  live  with  that  lady,  she  would 
make  her  dresses,  work  and  darn  her  laces ;  Azalie  could  do 
everything  in  the  world  but  tend  baby  and  stay  where  she 
was ;  that  she  could  not  do ;  no,  she  could  not ;"  and  Azalie 
fell  to  weeping  more  bitterly  than  ever. 

Henri  again  sought  the  lady  of  the  mansion,  and  learned 
from  her  that  Azalie  was  an  accomplished  dress-maker,  but  a 
diabolical  baby-tender  ;  that  she  persisted  in  pinching  the  ten 
der  ears  of  young  Monsieur  Augustine  Paul  Du  Pont,  for 
which  unnatural  cruelty  the  lady  wished  to  get  rid  of  her  im 
mediately.  The  result  of  the  matter  was,  that  before  night 

little  Azalie  with  her  many  budgets  was  transferred  to 

Place,  where  a  young  woman  who  was  not  without  employ 
ment  in  attending  to  her  own  little  tempers,  accepted  this 
freaky  maiden  as  another  soul  to  help  or  hinder,  as  good  an 
gels  should  prompt  ^r  bad  ones  triumph. 

All  looked  complacently  upon  Azalie's  advent  but  Kate,  who 
declared  that  she  "  cud  see  no  good  in  her  young  missus  havin' 
that  bit  of  a  Frinch  flyin'  an'  gablin'  an'  doin'  not  a  hap'orth' ;" 
but  at  last  Azalie  bought  Kate's  blessing  with  bon-bons,  with 
taffy  candy,  glass  rosaries,  pewter  crucifixes,  wooden  holy 


332  Victoire. 

virgins  and  baby  Jesuses ;  and  finding  herself  in  the  house 
without  an  enemy,  without  a  baby  to  make  havoc  with  her 
amiability,  little  Azalie  grew  antic  and  happy  as  a  kitten  in  the 
sun,  while  her  life's  one  superlative  joy  consisted  in  the  privi 
lege  of  tricking:  out  her  mistress  till  she  looked  as  near  like  a 

o  ^ 

bird  of  paradise  as  possible. 

On  this  memorable  evening  she  had  spread  out  before  my 
toilet  a  robe  of  pale  rose  color,  a  snowy  opera-cloak,  gorge 
ously  embroidered,  a  trifle  of  a  hat  which  seemed  only  a  gar 
land  of  roses  smothered  in  tulle.  She  had  forgotten  nothing ; 
the  sleeves  of  fibrous  lace,  the  bracelets  of  pearls,  the  cobweb 
pocket-handkerchief,  gloves,  fan,  lorgnette,  all  were  there  ; 
while,  as  she  declared,  "  Azalie  was  dying  to  see  Madame 
in  them.  Madame  had  worn  that  dress  but  once,  and 
Azalie  had  never  seen  her  look  half  so  handsome  in  anything 
else.  And  that  hat,  Madame  had  never  worn  anything  half 
so  ravishing.  All  the  world  would  say  of  Madame,  elle  se 
met  avec  gout.  Ah,  if  Azalie  could  only  go  to  the  Academy 
and  sit  in  the  parquette  to  look  at  Madame.  She  cared  no 
thing  about  the  music,  nothing  at  all ;  she  only  wished  to  go 
to  look  at  Madame." 

Under  this  flattery  to  Madame,  I  was  well  aware  was  hid 
an  earnest  plea  for  Azalie. 

"  If  you  care  nothing  at  all  about  the  music,  you  can  look 
at  Madame  here,  and  save  the  trouble  of  going  to  the  Academy 
for  a  sight,"  I  said. 

"  Ah,  did  Madame  think  that  her  eyes  looked  half  as  hand 
some  in  the  day  as  in  the  night,  or  did  she  think  that  Madame 
standing  there  could  be  half  as  magnrfique  a,*  Madame  sitting 
in  the  opera-box  under  the  curtains  of  golden  satin  ?  Ah,  if 
Azalie  could  see  Madame  there."1"* 

Thus,  amid  a  thousand  ejaculations  of  admiration  and  de 
sire,  the  foolish  maid  dressed  the  foolish  mistress. 

The  faintly  blushing  gossamer  fell  around  me  in  softest  folds ; 
over  neck  and  arms  swept  the  alluring  lace.  Azalie  hid  a 
white  half-blown  rose  in  my  hair,  now  redundant  as  of  old  ; 
she  clasped  the  pearl  necklace  about  my  throat,  the  pearl 
bracelets  around  my  wrists ;  she  threw  the  white  mantle 
carelessly  around  my  shoulders ;  she  th just  into  my  hand  the 
tulle  hat  with  its  wealth  of  veiled  blush  roses;  and  then, 
pointing  to  the  mirror  reaching  frbm  floor  to  ceiling,  with  a 
look  of  triumph,  exclaimed : 

"  Je  mis  enchante  !    Je  vous  felicite  de  tout  mon  coeur!* 

I  looked  for  an  instant ;  then  a  crimson  blush  sprang  from 


Temptation.  333 

the  quick  thought  in  my  heart,  to  my  very  temples.  "  Vanite  ! 
Folie  / "  I  exclaimed,  turning  quickly  away,  throwing  the 
frail  trifle  in  my  hand  upon  the  sofa  from  which  I  had  risen. 

"  Azalie,"  I  said,  turning  to  the  astonished  girl,  "  I  shall 
wear  none  of  these  things.  Some  other  time,  child,  I  will 
wear  them,  but  not  to-night.  Go  bring  my  plain  grey  silk, 
black  lace  mantle,  and  walking  hat." 

She  evidently  had  a  very  faint  idea  that  I  meant  what  I 
said.  She  did  not  believe  that  Madame  would  allow  Azalie 
to  get  up  such  a  toilette  for  nothing.  "Did  not  Madame 
know  that  she  looked  frightful  in  grey  and  all  sad  colors  ? 
Madame  needed  soft,  warm  tints.  Madame  looked  like  a 
beautiful  young  bride  now,  but  she  would  only  be  a  very 
plain  Madame  in  grey  dress  and  straw  bonnet ;  and  how 
would  a  black  mantle  look  under  the  golden  curtains  ?  Ma 
dame  was  in  sport,  Azalie  knew,"  and  she  did  not  move  a  step, 
and  looked  as  if  she  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  doing  so; 

A  carriage  rolled  up  the  avenue.  I  heard  a  quick  step  and 
ring.  I  looked  in  the  glass.  I  took  up  the  bonnet ;  it  was  a 
marvel  of  taste  and  beauty,  and  so  becoming.  I  was  looking 
well.  Was  there  any  merit  in  making  myself  look  indiffer 
ently  ?  "  This  costume  will  gratify  his  exquisite  taste,"  said 
desire.  "That  is  the  very  reason  why  you  are  so  loth  to 
part  with  it ;  the  very  reason  why  I  command  you  to  put  it 
off,"  said  conscience,  sternly.  Azalie,  instead  of  obeying  me, 
had  been  peeping  through  the  blinds  to  see  who  had  arrived. 

"  Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "  Monsieur  Moncrieffe,  un  bon  beau 
Jiomme,  had  come.  Now,  would  Madame  take  off  her  beau 
tiful  robes  ?  Azalie  knew  that  she  would  not." 

"  Azalie,"  I  said,  in  a  tone  which  I  tried  to  make  very  de 
cided,  "  go  and  do  as  I  bid  you." 

Evidently  I  had  not  quite  succeeded  in  my  effort.  Azalie 
had  a  lingering  conviction  that  I  did  not  mean  quite  what  I 
said.  She  took  only  a  step  or  two-in  the  necessary  direction, 
then  paused  and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  saying : 

"  Madame,  je  suis  de  mauvaise  humeiir." 

"I  am  sorry,"  I  said.  "If  you  have  lost  your  good-humor 
you  must  find  it  again.  But  do  as  I  ask  you,  Azalie." 

She  was  fairly  enraged  now,  feeling  that  the  compliments 
lost  to  the  toilette  were  so  many  lost  to  herself. 

"  Quel  dommagel  Quellehonte!  Cela  est  epouvantable  /" 
she  exclaimed. 

"  Azalie,  point  d' impertinence.     Je  le  veux  absolument." 

Azalie  looked  into  rny  eyes.     There  was  no  mistaking  their 


334 


Victoire. 


meaning  now,  nor  my  last  "  I  insist  upon  it."  Without  another 
word  she  obeyed  my  command,  and  with  multiplied  sighs  and 
groans,  watched  me  descend  in  my  quiet  costume. 

Moncrieffe  was  in  the  parlor.  Henri  was  lying  on  the  sofa  ; 
he  was  still  feverish,  and  had  decided  not  to  go. 

"  And  do  you  know,  Moncrieffe,  this  child  has  been  half 
inclined  to  stay  at  home,  too,  which  would  be  absurd,  for  she 
has  thought  of  nothing  else  for  a  week ;  besides,  it  would  be  a 
real  unkindness  to  Morna.  Why  have  you  donned  such  a  som 
bre  costume  ?  This  suit  does  not  look  at  all  like  you,"  he  con 
tinued,  looking  at  me. 

"  It  seemed  more  suitable  to  ride  in  than  full  dress,"  I  said, 
feeling  myself  blush  as  I  saw  Moncrieffe's  eyes  take  me  in. 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  have  a  very  happy  time,"  said  Henri, 
looking  after  us  as  we  departed.  "  I  shall  lie  on  the  sofa  and 
nap  till  you  return." 

I  stepped  back  an  instant.  "  I  should  have  a  happier  time 
if  you  were  going,"  I  said  softly. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  replied,  yet  looked  pleased. 

It  was  deep  twilight  when  we  started.  The  carriage  rolled8 
through  a  wilderness  of  roses.  It  had  been  one  of  those  fever 
ish  days  which  come  in  the  young  summer  in  the  early  ardor 
of  its  adolescence.  The  atmosphere  was  enervating ;  the 
heavy  fragrances  which  oppressed,  also  stirred  the  senses. 
Electric  clouds  lifted  their  crimson  crests  low  in  the  sky; 
above,  the  stars  stole  out  faint  and  sultry.  Even  our  proud 
horses  seemed  affected  by  the  smothered  passion  of  the  ele 
ments  ;  their  scornful  feet  seemed  to  have  lost  somewhat  of 
the  lightness  of  their  rebound,  and  their  arched  necks  drooped 
with  a  languor  not  usual. 

From  the  moment  when  we  found  ourselves  alone  together 
a  spell  seemed  to  fall  upon  each  of  us.  We  had  not  found 
ourselves  solitary  companions  since  our  first  interview.  There 
had  been  a  mutual  and  instinctive  avoidance  of  such  an  oc 
currence.  Neither  had  ever  seemed  to  have  any  inclination 
to  recall  the  past,  to  discuss  the  present,  or  to  anticipate  the 
future.  There  were  a  thousand  things  which  we  could  talk 
of  in  the  presence  of  others;  alone,  there  was  at  least  danger 
that  we  should  talk  of  each  other.  Now  each  seemed  struck 
dumb  with  the  other's  presence,. pervaded  with  the  other's 
being,  conscious  only  of  the  other  in  every  nerve.  I  attempt 
ed  a  light,  impersonal  conversation  ;  uttered  the  usual  amount 
of  trite  nothings,  interspersed  with  a  few  more  elaborate  re 
marks  not  particularly  lucid  or  brilliant.  But  my  efforts 


Temptation.  335 

were  fruitless.  Silent  lapses  seemed  inevitable.  Moncrieffe 
gave  gentle  and  brief  replies,  yet  seemed  to  have  little  more 
to  say  than  what  my  words  called  out.  For  the  first  time  I 
saw  him  preoccupied,  brooding  over  something  apart  from 
the  occasion.  Why  I  felt  that  it  was  something  in  connexion 
with  myself  I  could  not  tell.  The  grace,  the  deference  of 
manner  was  all  there,  but  the  careless  ease,  the  polished  aban 
don  was  utterly  wanting.  If  I  was  not  mistaken,  he  was 
terribly  oppressed  and  wretched,  and  took  refuge  in  silence 
lest  he  should  betray  it. 

Thus  we  rode  till  we  found  ourselves  under  the  very  sha 
dow  of  the  grand  temple  of  Irving  Place.  Its  lobbies  and 
cloak-room  were  thronged  with  gay  groups,  and  bouquet- 
venders  were  driving  an  astonishing  trade.  Resplendently 
dressed  ladies  nodded  and  smiled  in  recognition,  and  looked 
with  as  much  wonder  as  their  high  breeding  would  allow  upon 
Madame  Rochelle's  very  unoperatic  costume.  The  Academy 
looked  as  brilliant  as  at  the  acme  of  its  winter  season.  The 
same  blaze  of  light  flooded  its  stuccoed  arches  and  dome  of 
arabesque.  The  white  old  Titans  supporting  the  successive 
gallery  tiers  had  rarely  held  up  a  heavier  burden.  The  sculp 
tured  little  boys  looking  down  from  the  balustrades,  the 
beautiful  goddesses  in  their  rosy  robes  gazing  down  from 
the  lofty  ceiling,  had  seldom  seen  below  them  a  more  daz 
zling  sight.  Parquette  and  dress  circle  were  rapidly  being  filled 
with  people  more  or  less  splendid.  Fashionable  gentlemen, 
leaning  against  the  walls,  looked  through  their  lorgnettes  at 
fashionable  ladies  sitting  in  their  seats.  Fans  fluttered,  rib 
bons  flew,  voices  hummed  and  tittered ;  boys  paraded  the 
aisles,  calling:  "Opera  Normal  Twenty-five  cents."  Fair 
faces,  bare  shoulders,  burning  diamonds,  jewelled  and  tasselled 
fans,  were  beginning  to  appear  within  the  amber  satin  cur 
tains  of  the  boxes  ;  everything  gave  token  of  a  most  brilliant 
night  when  Moncriefle  and  I  entered  ours  and  took  our 
solitary  seats. 

I  should  have  turned  from  all  this  pomp  of  wealth  and 
fashion  in  sorrow  that  night,  if  I  had  not  thought  of  Morna. 
It  was  a  triumph  for  her  which  she  had  never  anticipated. 
If  Henri  could  have  been  there  to  have  witnessed  it!  I 
knew  how  keen  would  be  her  disappointment  that  he  was 
not.  She  venerated  him  as  the  one  benefactor  who  had  re 
deemed  her  from  a  life  of  hateful  servitude  and  given  her 
soul  opportunity  for  its  grand  expression.  For  every  triumph 
which  she  achieved  she  thanked  him  ;  and  yet  he  was  nat  here 


336  Victoire. 

to-night.  Involuntarily  I  dwelt  upon  Henri  and  Morna  in 
connexion,  and  was  filled  with  the  new,  painful  consciousness 
that,  while  I  was  away  "  pleasuring,"  one  so  near  to  me — my 
husband — was  at  home  alone  and  ill.  I  was  filled  with  self- 
crimination,  which  by  no  means  ceased  as  I  looked  into  the 
pale  face  of  Moncrieffe.  Guiltily  I  remembered  that  the 
thought  had  sometimes  come  to  me  that,  could  I  only  sit  by 
his  side,  it  would  be  joy  enough ;  here  I  was,  yet  was  not 
happy  at  all.  No,  I  felt  strangely  troubled. 

Upon  all  this  splendor  without,  this  darkness  within,  the 
vast  curtain  rose,  and  at  last  I  forgot  all  in  Morna — Norma. 
The  soul  which  embodies  life  in  any  of  the  immortal  forms 
of  art  must  first  have  lived.  By  life  I  mean  all  that  is  com 
prehended  in  its  unfathomed  mystery.  Morna  had  suffered, 
sorrowed ;  she  had  loved,  lost,  struggled,  and  triumphed. 
She  had  lived  ;  and  now  all  of  life — its  love,  its  yearning,  its 
woe,  its  hope,  its  despair — seemed  to  flow  from  her  soul  in 
one  great  refrain  of  melody,  smiting  and  thrilling  the  univer 
sal  heart.  There  was  no  stint  in  the  acclaim,  which  filled  her 
ears  that  night,  nor  in  the  gorgeous  flowers  which  fell  in  vo 
tive  offerings  at  her  feet.  It  was  at  the  close  of  the  last 
scene,  amid  the  enthusiasm  of  a  pealing  encore,  that  Mou- 
crieffe  and  I  threw  down  to  her  our  fragrant  offerings  of  love, 
rather  than  of  homage.  She  knew  whence  they  came ; 
lifting  her  eyes  to  the  box  as  she  stooped  to  gather  them  with 
a  sweet  acknowledgment  of  manner,  I  thought  I  detected  a 
shade,  just  a  shade,  of  disappointment  pass  over  her  expres 
sive  face.  She  saw  that  there  were  but  two  in  the  box,  and 
missed  the  other  one.  With  tears  in  my  eyes,  I  looked  down 
upon  this  sister  of  my  soul,  as  my  heart  travelled  through 
all  the  scenes  which  had  brought  us  to  this  spot,  and  out 
towards  the  future  which  must  be  revealed  ere  I  should  behold 
her  thus  again. 

The  lights,  the  music,  died  like  a  dream ;  the  gay  pageant 
vanished,  and  once  more  I  sat  beside  Moncrieffe,  with  our 
faces  turned  towards  Bel  Eden.  Again  the  painful  silence  had 
fallen  upon  us — so  painful  now  that  it  seemed  an  agony.  We 
had  entered  the  Elm  road ;  for  more  than  a  mile  before  us 
stretched  its  delicious  arcade.  High  above  the  sulphurous 
clouds  which  formed  the  smouldering  bastions  of  the  sky,  the 
moon  had  risen.  Through  the  light  foliage  which  made  a 
dome  of  perforated  green  over  our  heads,  this  gentle  Christ  of 
the  solar  heavens  shed  upon  us  a  mournful  smile.  I  saw  Mon- 
crieftVs  hand  press  tightly  upon  the  reins,  and  the  horses  stood 


Temptation.  337 

still  as  if  by  instinct.  He  turned  suddenly  around  and  con 
fronted  me.  The  glimmering  light  fell  full  upon  his  face; 
again  swept  over  it  the  deathly  pallor  which  covered  it  when 
we  first  met.  The  divining  eyes  seemed  to  overflow  with  an 
unfathomable  sorrow ;  all  the  might  of  passion  quivered  in 
the  curved  lines  of  the  supple  mouth,  while  he  said : 

"  Victoire,  I  cannot  endure  this  life.  A  mechanical,  mis 
understood,  miserable  life ;  such  I  live,  and  can  live  no  longer. 
I  must  go  and  leave  you,  Victoire;  or  you — must  go  with  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  gasped. 

"Mean!"  he  said,  low  and  slow.  "You  must  know  what 
I  mean.  You  must  know,  you  must  feel,  that  all  my  life  is 
false.  Am  I  not  false  to  my  needs,  to  my  holiest  affections, 
to  the  most  sacred  aspirations  of  my  soul  ?  I  have  been  true 
to  nothing  but  a  miserable  abstraction,  which  I  have  called 
duty,  right.  You  know  that  I  love  you  ;  aye,  that  word,  liv 
ing  as  it  is,  seems  dead  to  express  the  love  which  through, 
long  years  of  growth  has  culminated  in  my  heart  for  you. 
You  know  that  I  live  in  you  and  for  you ;  that  it  was  only 
to  breathe  the  same  air  with  you  that  I  consented  to  stay  in 
New  York ;  I  said  that  I  would  never  trouble  you,  that  I 
would  go  far  from  you,  if  I  found  that  I  must  be  more  to  you 
than  a  friend ;  I  said  that  I  knew  what  belonged  to  duty  and 
honor.  Forgive  me,  Victoire ;  for  weeks  I  have  known  no 
thing  save  that  I  love  you ;  that  I  have  no  existence  sepa 
rate  from  you  ;  that  in  you  all  that  is  best  in  my  nature  finds 
its  inspiration  and  its  crown.  Duty,  honor,  falsely  so  called, 
are  only  empty  sounds.  Victoire,  you  must  have  felt  all  this, 
yet  you  ask  me  what  I  mean." 

"  Moncrieffe,"  I  said,  "  only  a  portion  of  yourself  utters 
these  words.  There  is  another  portion  which  some  time  will 
contradict  much  that  you  say  now.  Duty  and  honor  are  not 
empty  sounds ;  they  comprehend  all  that  is  truly  grand  and 
loyal  in  life.  No  one  has  believed  this  more  practically  than 
yourself ;  you  will  believe  it  again.  Talk  not  of  what  must 
not  be.  We  must  be  superior  to  ourselves — to  our  hearts,  I 
mean."  If  there  was  a  tremor  in  my  tone,  there  was  anguish 
in  my  soul ;  yet,  beside  his,  my  words  sounded  both  weak 
and  grating ;  they  seemed  to  goad  him. 

"  Superior  to  ourselves  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Is  not  the  he'art 
the  holiest  portion  of  ourselves !  God  made  the  heart,  and 
we  cannot  be  superior  to  it.  It  will  assert  its  prerogatives 
in  spite  of  us.  Victoire,  can  you,  a  woman — a  woman  capable 
of  thrilling  with  the  divinest  love  which  ever  transfigured  a 


Victoire. 

woman's  soul — can  you  talk  thus?     Would  you   make   me 
believe  that  you  would  crush  the  heart,  kill  it  ?" 

Truly  one  part  of  myself  had  uttered  these  words.  Con 
science  had  asserted  itself,  even  while  the  moaning  heart  far 
below  it  wept  over  the  words  which  it  had  spoken. 

"  Victoire,"  he  murmured ;  it  was  the  same  voice,  the  very 
tone  which  once  penetrated  my  soul  through  all  the  agony 
which  death  then  brought  me.  He  took  my  hand  in  his — 
the  same  hand  which  led  me  so  unresistingly  years  before. 
Then  I  knew  not  to  whom  it  belonged  ;  now  I  knew  that  it 
was  the  hand  of  one  whose  soul  touched  mine  more  nearly 
than  that  of  any  other  being  whom  I  had  ever  met  upon 
earth.  Could  I  resist  him  now  ? 

"  Victoire,"  he  said,  u  we  belong  to  each  other.  By  every 
law  of  our  being  we  belong  to  each  other.  Come  with  me, 
Victoire  ;  come  !  I  have  no  sweet  stones  to  tell  you  of  Italian 
skies  and  orange  bowers ;  where  we  can  dream  our  life  away 
in  love  and  poetry.  But  the  world  is  wide.  It  holds  some 
spot  where  you  and  I  may  live  in  and  for  each  other.  To  me 
life  without  you  is  not  life — it  is  a  living  death.  In  the  past 
eternity  God  never  allied  two  souls  so  closely  to  each  other, 
only  to  doom  them  to  an  eternal  separation.  You  know, 
Victoire,  that  I  can  never  leave  nor  forsake  you.  Will  you 
come  with  me  ?" 

"  Henri !  Do  you  think  that  I  can  leave  or  forsake  him  ? 
I  owe  him  too  much  ;  he  is  too  dear  to  me  ;  I  have  vowed — " 

"  Yes,  you  have  vowed.  Henri  llochelle  is  your  husband 
in  name,  but  not  in  soul.  I  do  not  doubt  your  truth,  your 
esteem,  your  affection  for  him ;  if  I  did  I  should  honor  you 
less.  He  loves  you  as  much  as  such  a  man  can  love.  But  he 
is  purely  logical.  Leave  him,  and  his  reason  will  assure  him 
that  you  were  utterly  unworthy.  He  will  waste  few  regrets 
on  a  woman  whom  he  will  deem  so  false.  He  is  a  man  full 
of  practical  ambition.  His  busy  life  will  soon  cure  his  heart. 
He  will  weave  comfort  out  of  a  stoic's  philosophy.  God 
forgive  me  if  I  wrong  him,  but  he  can  never  need  you  as  I 
need  you.  He  has  never  fathomed  the  mine  of  love  in  your 
soul  as  I  have  fathomed  it ;  he  does  not  feel  the  exquisite 
delicacy  of  your  nature  as  I  feel  it ;  he  does  not  appreciate 
your  marvellous  grace  as  I  appreciate  it ;  he  is  not  moved  as 
I  am  moved  by  every  need  of  your  heart.  He  can  draw  a 
fine  portrait  of  an  ideal  woman,  and  then  destroy  her  uncon 
sciously  by  the  atmosphere  which  he  makes  for  her.  I  will 
give  you  what  he  has  never  given — companionship,  sympathy, 


Temptation.  339 

tenderness ;  for  these  you  are  inly  dying,  Victoire ;  with  all 
your  glorious  genius,  there  is  nothing  which  you  long  for, 
nothing  which  you  need  half  so  much,  as  tenderness.  I  have 
nothing  else  for  you.  Victoire,  come!" 

Oh,  if  he  had  not  said  "  come"  in  a  tone  which  dissolved 
my  soul  in  weakness !  I  could  think  of  nothing,  feel  nothing, 
but  that  voice.  Fever,  passion,  were  naught  with  me ;  they 
would  have  availed  him  nothing.  Only  such  tenderness  could 
thrill  me  thus  ;  for  this  my  woman's  heart  was  so  athirst.  All 
that  I  had  ever  dreamed  of  love,  divine,  complete,  looked  down 
upon  me  from  those  living  eyes.  The  spell  of  a  powerful  na 
ture  rested  upon  me  ;  I  seemed  a  dissevered  part  of  his  being, 
which  an  irresistible  attraction  was  now  drawing  back  to  him 
self. 

"Come." 

My  face  sank  into  my  hands.  I  felt  the  tightening  of  the 
reins ;  I  heard  the  carriage  grate  against  its  wheels  in  turn 
ing  ;  I  heard  the  tirst  step  of  the  horses  beginning  that  endless 
journey  which  would  lead  me  from  home  and  honor  for 
ever. 

What  was  it — what,  which  amid  tfie  hopeless  fascination 
which  had  fallen  upon  me,  making  me  more  pliant  than  a  child, 
suddenly  quickened  in  me  a  new  antagonism  as  those  sounds 
smote  my  ear  ?  Was  it  the  old  will  which  had  made  me  so 
stubborn  a  child,  so  wilful  a  maiden  ?  Or  was  it  the  ever- 
promised  grace,  brought  by  good  angels  from  the  heart  of  the 
compassionate  God,  to  succor  His  falling  little  one?  The 
glamor  had  fled  ;  a  lightning  consciousness  struck  through  ray 
soul.  My  duty,  my  husband,  my  sin !  The  face  of  my  de 
parted  ones  hovered  close  to  mine ;  Frederick's  seraphic  face, 
the  face  of  Beatrice,  my  father,  my  mother.  Had  they  come 
to  accuse  me  ?  No ;  their  eyes  were  tilled  with  the  light  of  a 
serene  hope — yea,  of  a  radiant  certainty.  I  stretched  out  the 
arms  of  my  spirit  for  help  to  wards  them,  towards  the  tenderly 
pitying  Christ,  the  man  of  sorrow,  once  tempted,  yet  without 
sin. 

"  Take  me  back,  back,"  I  said,  suddenly  lifting  my  face  from 
my  hands. 

"  Back  ?  I  will  not — cannot.  You  are  mine,  mine  for  ever 
more.  I  cannot  take  you  back  to  one  to  whom  you  do  not 
belong.  By  all  the  holy  laws  of  nature  you  are  mine  !" 

Involuntarily  I  rose  ;  his  strong  arm  restrained  me,  but  the 
spell  was  broken.  My  soul  had  risen  to  a  level  above  his  own. 
There  was  a  cold  resoluteness  in  my  manner  which  I  did  not 


Victoire. 

understand ;  my  voice  was  low,  slow,  strangely  distinct — it 
did  not  seem  like  my  voice  even  to  myself. 

"  Monerieffe,"  I  said,  "  I  can  resist  even  you.  ,1  will  not 
perjure  my  soul  even  for  you  ;  I  will  not  prove  traitor  to  my 
most  sacred  vows  even  for  you.  Take  me  back.  If  I  obey 
you  to-night  you  will  despise  me  to-morrow.  You  cannot 
realize  it  now,  but  it  is  true  ;  you  would  soon  cease  to  love  a 
woman  who  had  proved  false  to  her  integrity,  even  though 
she  had  proved  false  for  your  sake.  Ambrose  Monerieffe,  you 
are  false  to  yourself  to-night ;  to-morrow  you  will  feel  it  and 
deplore  it.  Take  me  back  !" 

Again  our  eyes  had  met  in  one  long  gaze.  He  looked  on 
me  as  only  such  a  man  could  look  upon  the  object  which  he 
loved  best.  Will,  purpose,  passion  died  ;  sorrow,  tenderness, 
tears,  stood  instead  in  the  dark  irides.  I  could  combat  the 
first  with  the  nerve  of  an  Amazon ;  before  the  last,  my  soul 
melted.  That  long,  loving,  lingering  gaze,  which  evermore 
makes  a  farewell  look,  covered  his  face  ;  beneath  it  I  felt  all 
my  nature  growing  weak  again.  I  turned  away. 

"  Victoire,  if  I  have  sinned,  if  I  have  wronged  you,  it  is 
because  there  is  no  object  in  earth  or  heaven  which  I  desire 
beside  you !  Yet  I  would  rather  die  than  wrong  you,  save 
in  the  sudden  madness  of  a  mad  moment !" 

Again  I  felt  the  tightening  of  the  reins  ;  again  the  carriage 
grated  against  its  wheels,  the  proud  horses  curved  their  grace 
ful  necks,  and  we  were  once  more  fairly  turned  towards  Bel 
Eden.  During  the  remainder  of  the  drive  not  a  word  was 
spoken  ;  in  silence  he  handed  me  from  the  carriage ;  in  silence 
he  extended  his  hand  ;  then,  as  the  moonlight  fell  clear  on 
both  faces,  the  words  of  the  Greek  Ion  burst  from  his 
lips : — 

"  I  have  asked  that  dreadful  question  of  the  hills 
That  look  eternal ;  of  the  flowing  streams 
That  lucid  flow  for  ever ;  of  the  stars, 
Amid  whose  fields  of  azure  my  raised  spirit 
Hath  walked  in  glory  :  all  were  dumb ;  but  now, 
While  thus  I  gaze  upon  thy  living  face, 
I  feel  the  love  that  kindles  through  its  beauty 
Can  never  wholly  perish  ;  we  shall  meet  again." 

He  dropped  my  nerveless  hand  ;  I  stood  transfixed  as  I  saw 
him  enter  the  carringe — saw  it  roll  down  the  avenue.  For 
days,  months,  I  could  hear  the  sound  of  those  wheels.  I  hear 
them  now ! 

I  leaned  my  head  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  portico 


Temptation.  341 

for  a  moment  before  entering  the  house.  The  peerless  beauty 
of  Bel  Eden  stretched  away,  revealed  in  the  white  moon 
light  ;  the  green  shadow  of  the  park,  the  glory  of  the 
flowers,  the  intoxicating  roses,  the  quiet  statues,  the  peace- 
dropping  fountains,  all  stood  before  me,  baptized  in  the  dewy 
splendor  of  a  June  night.  A  little  way  beyond  was  the  low 
garden  seat  on  which  we  sat  that  June  morning,  three  years 
before,  when  I  said  to  Henri  Rochelle :  "  I  will  marry  you. 
God  pity  and  forgive  me  if  I  sin  in  saying  so."  Again  my  eye 
wandered  to  the  memorial  cross,  again  stole  up  to  the  dumb 
heavens,  past  the  voiceless  stars,  to  the  listening  soul  of  the 
Everlasting  Father,  the  yearning  prayer,  "  God  pity  and  for 
give." 

I  stole  softly  through  portico  and  hall,  through  dimly- 
lighted  parlors,  to  the  sofa  where  we  left  Henri.  He  was 
still  there,  and  seemed  asleep.  I  laid  my  hand  lightly  on  his 
brow  and  started,  it  was  so  feverishly  hot. 

"  Victoire,  is  that  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  giving  him  my  hand.  "  I  have  been  anxious 
about  you.  I  have  feared  that  you  were  growing  worse." 

"  I  have  been  anxious  about  you  also,"  he  replied.  "  I  have 
not  learned  how  to  be  sick  ;  a  slight  cold  makes  me  childish ; 
I  was  never  at  home  and  you  gone  before ;  thus  for  the  first 
time,  to-night  I  have  had  an  opportunity  to  know  that  there 
is  no  light  in  the  house  when  you  are  out  of  it.  I  did  not 
dream  that  it  could  make  such  a  difference  in  my  happiness  to 
know  that  you  were  inside  of  these  walls.  I  have  been 
strangely  nervous  to-night — such  a  new  sensation.  Every  time 
I  fell  into  a  light  slumber  I  was  tormented  about  you.  It 
seemed  as  if  you  were  in  trouble,  or  danger,  and  I  was  trying 
to  save  you.  My  distress  would  wake  me  up  ;  and  then  I 
would  reassure  myself  with  the  thought  that  you  were  as 
safe  with  Moncrieffe  as  you  would  be  with  myself.  Then  I 
would  fall  asleep  and  dream  the  same  horrors  over  again.  You 
are  a  very  dear  child,"  he  said,  kissing  the  hand  which  he  held. 
"  Ma  chere,  chere  amie,  ma  bonne,  ma  belle  epouse^  asseyez- 
vous  pres  de  moi."  And  he  drew  me  down  to  a  low  seat  be 
side  the  sofa. 

"  I  ha^ve  thought  only  of  you  when  awake  as  well  as  asleep," 
he  added ;  "  but  then  my  thoughts  were  very  pleasant.  I 
have  been  thinking  what  a  good  wife  you  are,  Victoire,  and 
have  longed  for  you  to  come  home  that  I  might  tell  you  so. 
To-night  it  has  dawned  upon  me  like  a  new  revelation,  that 
lor  months  you  have  been  growing  more  and  more  beautiful 


342 


Victoire. 


in  face  and  soul.  How  you  adorn  my  life,  how  you  soften  and 
gladden  it !  Here,  in  silence  and  alone,  I  have  thanked  God 
for  you,  my  sweet  companion,  my  lovely  friend,  the  only  one 
I  think  in  the  world  who  has  learned  truly  to  love  me.  You 
know  that  I  am  one  who  will  never  win  many  to  love  me. 
Many  will  esteem,  I  suppose,  but  I  think  that  no  one  loves 
me  but  you.  I  never  realized  until  to-night  how  grateful  I 
am  for  the  gift.  Indeed  I  think  that  it  makes  me  rich  enough. 
You  will  never  take  it  from  me,  will  you,  Victoire  ?" 

"  Never,"  I  said,  breaking  into  a  flood  of  tears,  while  I 
still  held  the  burning  hand.  Had  he  pierced  me  with  a  thou 
sand  daggers  he  could  not  have  hurt  me  worse.  I  had  never 
felt  a  mote  poignant  pain  than  this — to  be  compelled  to  hear 
from  the  soul  which  believed  in  me  without  a  doubt,  praise 
that  I  did  not  deserve,  faith  which  I  had  almost  forfeited,  love 
which  I  had  almost  forsaken.  Yet,  as  I  sat  there,  could  I  say 
that  I  was  indifferent,  that  I  had  no  affection  for  him  ?  No, 
I  could  not.  I  longed  to  throw  myself  beside  him  and  confess 
all ;  my  only  expiation  could  be  that,  after  all,  I  honored  and 
loved  my  husband  too  well  to  betray  him  or  to  forsake 
him. 

I  thought  of  Moncrieffe — how  in  Henri's  affections  he  stood 
apart  from  all  other  men.  I  could  not  speak  the  word  which 
would  lower  him  ;  in  this  moment  of  perfect  trust  I  could  not 
shatter  his  faith  both  in  wife  and  friend.  All  would  yet  be  re 
vealed.  I  prayed  that  it  might,  but  the  hour  had  not  yet 
come.  I  knelt  beside  that  couch,  and  in  silence  thanked  God 
that  He  had  delivered  me  from  temptation. 

Henri  uttered  no  complaints,  yet  I  saw  that  he  was  seriously 
ill.  A  heavy  cold  had  settled  upon  his  lungs,  and  the  morning 
revealed  a  fearful  case  of  pneumonia.  In  the  many  long  days 
and  nights  of  watching  which  came  after,  I  found  abundant 
time  for  reflection,  for  contrition,  for  prayer. 

By  this  couch  of  suffering  one  dreary  midnight,  while  strain 
ing  my  vigil-worn  eyes  over  the  day's  newspaper  to  keep  them 
from  closing  in  hopeless  sleep,  I  read  the  announcement  that, 
that  day,  "  Ambrose  Moncrieffe,  Esq.,  sailed  for  Europe  as 

American  consul  to ,"  the  paper  adding  that  "it  would  be 

difficult  to  find  a  man  more  eminently  qualified  to  fillihe  posi 
tion  with  distinguished  honor  than  Mr.  Moncrieffe." 


Temptation.  343 


"FREE   LOVE. 

"  My  dear  fils  adoptif,  my  dear  brethren  of  mankind,  en 
deavor  to  clear  your  mind  of  cant." 

Why  is  this  life  so  full  of  partial  relationships?  Why  do 
the  barriers  of  circumstance  often  separate  us  for  ever  from 
the  beings  dear  to  us?  Why  are  the  twin  in  soul  so  ruth 
lessly  divided  by  fate  ?  One  sent  on,  longing  and  faltering 
down  the  life-path,  for  ever  looking  far  back,  where  the  other 
stands  bereft  and  hopelessly  alone.  We  cannot  measure  our 
affections  and  appropriate  them  in  given  quantities  according 
to  our  will.  If  so,  why  am  I  so  cold  and  indifferent  towards 
you  ?  My  intellect  acknowledges  your  superiority.  You  are 
wise  and  worthy.  I  admire  you,  I  appreciate  you,  yet  my 
heart  does  not  warm  towards  you.  I  expostulate,  I  repri 
mand  it,  because  it  does  not  ;  but  in  vain.  The  more  I  try, 
the  less  I  like  you.  The  truth  is,  there  is  something  in  your 
nature  which  obtrudes  and  chafes  me ;  it  hurts  me,  and  will 
keep  me  for  ever  outside  of  your  heart.  Your  affinities  lie 
without  my  sphere.  "  You  are  no  relation  to  me."  I  will 
esteem  yon  to  the  end  of  my  days  ;  love  you  I  cannot. 

The  guileless,  unformed  girl  of  seventeen  truly  believed 
that  she  loved  the  man  to  whom  she  plighted  her  hand ; 
perhaps  she  did.  There  are  so  many  gradations  of  love,  it 
shades  itself  so  naturally  to  the  claim  of  the  soul  to  whom  we 
give  it — to  simple  tenderness  or  divine  pity,  to  friendship, 
phrensy,  or  passion.  She  did  not  dream  that  she  liked  him, 
simply  because  he  loved  her,  nor  because  there  was  anything 
in  him  which  answered  to  the  yet  quiescent  needs  of  her 
being.  But  the  harmonious,  ripely  developed  woman,  with 
her  yearning  soul  and  passionate  heart,  discovers  what  the 
girl  of  seventeen  could  not  know.  She  may  give  to  him  all 
the  affection  which  his  nature  calls  forth,  all  which  it  demands. 
But  the  measurelesss  devotion,  the  absorbing,  the  ideal 
love  of  the  woman,  finds  not  in  him  an  object.  There  are 
depths  in  her  nature  which  he  cannot  fathom ;  there  is  a  reach 
to  her  intellect  which  he  cannot  measure,  a  want  of  love  in 
her  heart  which  he  cannot  supply.  Her  nature  is  melodious, 
inspired,  spirituel ;  his  is  paltry,  plodding,  prosaic.  Is  it 
strange  when  Apollo  crosses  her  path  that  he  is  drawn 
towards  Venus  in  spite  of  Vulcan  ?  At  their  birth  the  same 
genii  presided ;  their  spirits  are  attuned  to  the  same  har 
monies.  She  makes  all  beauty  possible  to  him  ;  he  all  nobility 


344  Victoire. 

a  reality  to  her.  Children  of  the  sun,  born  in  one  celestial 
latitude,  they  recognise  each  other. 

The  man  who  married  at  twenty  the  beauty  who  maddened 
his  senses,  at  thirty,  in  the  peevish,  querulous  woman  whom 
he  calls  wife,  looks  in  vain  for  that  early  charmer.  These 
souls  have  changed.  He  has  grown ;  she  has  shrivelled.  He 
has  arrived  at  manhood's  noon  of  strength,  of  knowledge,  and 
of  power;  she,  an  evanescent  blossom  of  the  morning,  fades 
and  shrinks  away  before  his  noontide  glory.  Where  is  the 
radiant  companion  of  his  dawn  ?  He  needs  a  more  eifulgent 
spirit  to  share  the  splendor  of  his  meridian.  He  forgets  that, 
rashly  mad,  he  tore  this  frail  bud  from  its  mother-stem  when 
it  was  far  too  early  to  know  what  the  blossom  could  be.  Has 
he  nourished  and  fed  it  as  he  ought  with  the  dew  and  sunshine 
of  love  ?  He  does  not  think  to  inquire  ;  he  only  feels  that  now 
it  is  a  daily  piercing  thorn,  whose  sharpness  hurts  him,  whose 
dwarfed  proportions  insult  his  pride  ;  and  as  he  looks,  he  says 
silently  with  all  a  man's  bitter  impetuosity :  "  That  such  a 
woman  should  be  my  wife !"  perchance  cursing  fate,  when 
only  he  himself  is  to  blame. 

To  this  man  very  dangerous  is  a  regal  woman  who  has 
crossed  his  path  in  the  world ;  a  serene  and  musical  woman 
with  a  man's  brain,  a  woman's  graces  and  gentleness,  and  a 
woman's  heart  of  tenderness.  Her  presence  fills  him  with 
inspiration.  He  dreams  that  all  goodness  and  greatness  would 
be  possible  with  her.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  is 
filled  with  a  sentiment  which  he  deems  worthy  of  the  name 
of  love  ;  that  pervading,  transfiguring  love  of  the  soul,  first 
born  in  us  in  the  full  ripeness  of  our  years.  He  sits  by  his 
hearth  in  the  twilight  shadow,  his  children  climb  his  knee  and 
cover  his  face  with  kisses,  but  a  dissatisfied  womanly  voice 
utters  its  peevish  complaints  and  fretful  reproaches.  He  looks 
down  on  his  little  girl,  into  her  dreamy  eyes,  and  half  uncon 
sciously  sighs :  "  Oh,  that  Ally  called  Tashline  mother  !" 

Shall  Venus  seek  refuge  in  the  arms  of  Apollo  ?  Shall  this 
man  renounce  the  woman  whom  he  has  left  so  far  behind  in  the 
race  of  progression,  and  seek  as  the  light  of  his  home  the 
glorious  Tashline?  Thus  did  Shelley,  one  of  the  most  gifted 
and  most  misguided  of  men.  Who  doubts  but  that  Mary 
Godwin  inspired  in  him  a  higher  love  than  that  kindled  by 
the  pretty  child-wife  who  so  early  found  "the  world  too 
many"  for  her,  who  sank  so  soon  under  a  woman's  burden  of 
life  ?  Yet,  who  can  say  that  it  was  not  the  great  crime  of 
Shelley's  life  when  he  forsook  this  poor  child,  left  her  alone 


"Free  Love.'"  345 

in  her  weakness  and  temptation  in  order  that  he  might  walk 
the  paths  of  high  intent  with  a  fitter  companion,  a  beautiful 
soul-mate,  the 

"  Friend  whose  presence  on  his  wintry  heart 
Fell  like  bright  spring  upon  some  herbless  plain." 

Such  a  being  as  Shelley  could  only  meet  Mary  Godwin  to 
love  her  ;  had  he  met  her  first,  his  would  have  been  a  less 
stormy  life,  a  less  mournful  fate.  But  life  with  her  afterwards 
could  not  obliterate  the  past.  The  love  of  Mary  Godwin, 
dear  and  satisfying  as  it  was,  could  not  banish  the  melancholy 
ghost  which  haunted  his  years — could  not  warm  the  remorse 
which  froze  his  soul,  as  the  drowned  face  of  that  forsaken  one 
drifted  through  the  cold  waves  of  his  dreams. 

Ah,  if  human  beings  could  only  feel  and  act  as  if  they  felt 
that  love  is  born  in  their  souls  for  a  higher  end  than  that  of 
mere  personal  happiness.  The  simple  renunciation  of  the  be 
loved  but  forbidden  object,  forces  upon  us  new  discipline  and 
growth,  greater  nobility  and  purity  of  spirit.  Love  does  not 
die  because  you  relinquish  the  creature  which  awakened  its 
deeper  life.  You  would  fain  have  lavished  all  your  noble 
soul  upon  one  ;  God  wills  that  it  should  sweeten  and  gladden 
the  lives  of  many,  flowing  into  the  wider  spheres  of  thought 
and  action.  Thus  the  very  love  which  may  be  made  an  inspi 
ration  and  blessing,  if  sought  solely  for  your  own  pleasure, 
seized  as  your  own  exclusive  personal  possession,  would  prove 
the  very  bane  and  scourge  of  existence.  Perfect  fellowship, 
if  it  is  not  born  to  us  legitimately,  will  not  force  its  way  into 
our  lives  through  dishonored  homes,  sundered  ties,  and  broken 
hearts.  The  maiden  ni  y  not  have  married  the  man  whom 
of  all  others  she  would  li:  ve  chosen,  nor  the  youth  the  girl  of 
his  first  love.  Both  h  ve  a  memory  to  sigh  over,  a  lost 
dream  to  dream  over  when  their  hearts  are  sore  or  sad,  a 
brief  unwritten  poem  to  chant  amid  the  dull  prose  of  life ; 
yet  each  may  be  more  truly  mated  than  if  fate  had  not  torn 
.from  them  their  early  idols.  In  marriage,  as  in  His  other 
gifts,  God  does  not  always  satisfy  every  desire,  but  bestows 
for  a  higher  end  than  the  personal  joy  of  the  present  hour. 
Socrates  needed  a  Xantippe  to  test  the  grandeur  of  his 
philosophy.  No  doubt,  he  drank  his  last  draught  of  hemlock 
with  deeper  serenity,  and  left  for  all  ages  the  record  of  a  sub- 
liiner  death-scene  than  if  he  had  given  up  the  ghost  in  the 
arms  of  a  beloved  Hypatia. 

Ambrose  MoncriefFe  came  to  me  under  no  silken  covert ; 

15* 


346  Victoire. 

he  had  not  attempted  to  decoy  me  by  any  arts  of  temptation, 
He  had  simply  been  himself,  a  gifted,  manly  man  ;  yet,  because 
a  man,  tempted  and  ready  to  fall.  Talk  not  of  the  weakness  of 
woman,  O  man,  born  of  woman  !  First  look  into  the  eyes  of 
the  only  woman  whom  you  love  with  the  concentrated  pas 
sion  of  your  manhood,  then  gauge  your  strength.  It  cost  my 
heart  many  a  pang  to  leave  a  letter,  which  I  had  received 
from  him  a  few  days  after  our  parting,  through  Henri's  long 
illness,  unopened.  As  I  sat  in  silence  and  dimness  beside 
that  couch  of  suffering,  my  eyelids  would  close  in  half 
wakeful  dreams,  and  through  their  mist  would  float  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  face ;  sometimes,  as  I  looked  on  it  last, 
all  blanched  with  pain  and  passion,  but  oftener  as  it  had 
looked  upon  me  in  earlier  hours,  effulgent  with  genius,  ten 
derness,  all  manly  beauty  ;  then  what  light  it  would  make  in 
the  darkness,  till,  unconsciously,  I  would  put  out  my  hands  to 
thrust  it  away,  opening  my  eyes  in  sudden  terror.  Then  I 
would  half  sleep  again,  to  feel  that  voice  thrill  along  the 
chords  of  my  spirit,  filling  all  my  hearing  with  music.  Again 
my  ear  would  catch  the  echo  of  his  resilient  step,  and  the 
dark  room  would  kindle  with  the  radiance  of  his  presence. 
Again  I  would  open  my  eyes  in  remorse,  lavishing  every 
tender  attention  which  my  heart  could  devise  upon  the  suf 
ferer  by  my  side,  attentions  born  no  less  of  contrition  than  of 
the  saddest  affection. 

Henri  missed  him,  and  in  the  intervals  when  he  was  free 
from  pain,  would  ask  for  him  ;  and  I  did  not  dare  to  say  that 
he  had  gone  away,  fearing  the  effect  of  such  a  revelation  on 
one  so  very  ill.  He  might,  had  it  not  been  for  that  spring's 
sad  change,  he  might  have  brought  consolation  to  the  sufferer 
in  that  darkened,  sorrowful  room. 

The  long  weeks  "wore  away.  August  came  and  brought 
with  it  the  promise  of  returning  health  to  the  invalid.  That 
which  I  had  sighed  for  so  long  was  granted  me ;  he  needed 
me  now.  The  strength  of  the  strong,  proud  man  sickness 
had  broken.  He  did  not  scorn  the  aid  of  a  woman's  arm,  and 
had  come  to  depend  upon  her  hourly  care  and  companion 
ship.  The  snow  melted  on  the  coldest  pinnacle  of  the  Alps, 
watering  with  tender  rain  the  valley  below  ;  in  this  budding 
valley  I  took  up  my  abode.  Sheltered  and  quiet  I  una 
wares  grew  peaceful ;  if  something  like  a  shadow  of  remorse 
had  not  stolen  in,  I  should  have  been  happy.  With  my 
letter  from  Moncrieffe  came  one  also  to  Henri,  which  in 
the  early  days  of  his  convalescence  I  placed  in  his  hand  to 


"  Free  Love."  347 

read.  After  announcing  his  sudden  departure,  it  said  :  "  If 
you  knew  everything  about  me,  you  would  want  to  crush  me 
under  your  feet.  I  will  tell  you  some  time ;  then  you  may  do 
as  you  please.  I  feel  that  I  need  your  friendship,  and  will 
yet  deserve  it." 

"Poor  Moncrieffe,"  said  Henri,  most  kindly,  "how  moody 
he  has  grown.  I  never  knew  a  nobler  fellow  ;  I  am  sure  that 
I  shall  like  him  to  the  end  of  my  days  ;"  and,  with  a  trembling 
hand,  that  very  hour  he  wrote  and  told  him  so. 

Many  days  after,  when  every  shadow  of  danger  of  a  relapse 
had  passed  away,  when  Henri  had  once  more  gone  forth  to  his 
daily  occupation,  when  I  once  more  found  myself  solitary-  -not 
till  then  did  I  open  and  read  my  long  waiting  letter — the  only 
one  which  ever  waited  for  my  reading. 

"  Victoire,"  he  wrote.,  "  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  feel  that 
I  have  degraded  my  manhood.  I  was  false  to  myself  that 
night,  and  to-day  feel  the  fulfilment  of  your  prophecy.  I  have 
been  false  to  myself  for  many  weeks  past ;  I  have  been  wicked, 
and  my  only  consolation  is  that  I  know  it,  and  with  the  know 
ledge  comes  the  purpose  to  make  atonement.  My  first  leaning 
towards  wrong  was  in  courting  temptation,  propping  myself 
up  with  the  delusion  that  I  only  did  it  to  prove  myself  strong. 
It  was  a  temptation  which  could  come  to  me  but  once  in  a 
lifetime.  The  one  object  which  my  heart  had  sighed  for  was 
before  my  eyes,  the  only  object  which  I  desired  or  needed. 
Yet,  I  said,  I  will  behold  it,  yet  not  desire  it ;  I  will  come 
into  its  presence,  yet  not  seek  it.  Thus  I  ran  the  gauntlet  of 
my  strength  with  that  of  the  great  arch  foe.  It  was  enough 
for  you,  a  woman,  that  you  could  sometimes  hear  my  voice, 
that  you  could  share  my  society  with  others,  and  that  you 
could  know  in  silence  that  I  loved  you  ;  but  it  is  not  in  the  na 
ture  of  man  to  be  satisfied  with  anything  less  than  absolute 
possession  of  the  woman  whom  he  loves.  A  man's  passionate 
love  is  exclusive?  restless,  and  selfish  ;  it  will  endure  no  rival, 
it  obeys  no  law  but  its  own  wild  will ;  it  is  the  parent  of  sin, 
sorrow,  remorse,  and  death.  Affection  is  holy,  and  differs 
from  passion  as  light  from  fire.  It  grows  in  the  atmosphere  of 
reason ;  it  reveres  the  right ;  it  is  disinterested,  constant,  and 
tender ;  it  gives  all,  asking  no  return  but  the  happiness  of  its 
object.  I  said — It  is  affection  which  I  give  to  her — holy,  true ! 
I  would  not  believe  that  it  was  love,  blind,  mad,  until  I  looked 
into  the  face  of  your  husband  and  felt  a  sudden  feeling  of  hate, 
new  and  frightful  to  my  soul,  while  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
had  defrauded  me  of  my  own  rightful  possession.  Then  a 


348  Victoire. 

demon  took  up  its  abode  in  me,  and  actually  made  me  believe 
that  you  belonged  to  me,  and  that  I  had  a  right  to  claim  you  as 
my  own.  I  have  somewhere  read  that  woman,  having  first  led 
man  astray,  must  never  more  presume  to  be  his  guide.  When 
woman  falls,  it  is  through  the  depth  of  her  affection  ;  man 
falls  through  the  might  of  his  passions.  Passion  is  weakness  ; 
tenderness  may  be  also,  but  it  is  of  a  diviner  sort.  I  believe 
that  if  woman  has  been  the  tempter,  she  must  also  be  the  sa 
viour  of  man.  In  the  clear  light  which  shone  in  your  eyes  that 
night,  passion  died.  Had  you  yielded  then,  you  would  have 
lived  to  curse  me  as  I  curse  myself.  Truly  you  said :  '  You 
could  not  long  love  a  woman  who  had  been  false  to  her  inte 
grity,  though  she  had  proved  false  for  your  sake.'  No,  I  could 
not.  No  man  can  truly  love  a  woman  whom  he  has  ceased 
to  respect.  Though  once  he  worshipped  her  as  an  angel  of 
light,  let  her  descend  from  her  moral  altitude,  through  her 
great  affection  for  him,  sink  to  the  level  of  his  passion,  and  all 
unconsciously  to  himself  -his  reverence  changes  to  contempt, 
his  love  to  hate  or  pity.  I  am  giving  you  the  convictions  of 
my  intellect — I  have  no  right  to  offer  you  more.  I  am  going 
forth  again  into  the  great  world,  not  to  forget  you,  but  to 
make  you  a  beautiful  yet  sorrowful  memory  embalmed  in  the 
past.  I  silence  my  heart  and  say-^-Narrow  must  be  that  na 
ture  which  can  be  measured  by  a  single  sentiment ;  narrow 
indeed  that  soul  which  through  all  its  mortal  life  can  be 
absorbed  by  a  single  being.  Love  is  eternal,  but  its  objects 
change.  Poetry  dreams  of  one  love,  but  our  consciousness 
assures  us  that  it  can  find  more  than  one  object.  If  God  has 
manifested  Himself  in  one  soul  for  me,  He  can  do  so  in  another 
also.  Victoire,  you  will  say  this  is  man's  love ;  only  a  man 
could  thus  talk  of  relinquishing  an  object  which  has  so  long 
filled  his  life,  and  thus  coolly  calculate  upon  the  certainty  of 
securing  another.  You,  a  woman,  would  find  a  sad,  unac 
knowledged  consolation  in  the  thought  that  I  should  remain 
for  ever  desolate  for  your  sake.  Like  a  true  woman,  you  re 
jected  the  love  which  you  had  no  right  to  take  ;  like  a  true 
woman,  you  will  weep  for  want  of  the  very  gift  which  you 
spurned.  There  will  be  moments  when  you  will  pine  for  the 
tenderness  which  you  so  utterly  refused.  There  will  be  hours 
when  I  shall  be  desolate  and  wretched  enough  to  satisfy  the 
wildest  cravings  of  your  heart.  But  I  will  not  be  the  slave  of 
such  hours.  Already  I  have  given  you  reason  to  despise  me, 
even  as  I  despise  myself.  God  save  me  from  again  dishonor 
ing  my  manhood.  Long  I  sought  to  find  a  woman  with  a 


Hope.  349 

large  brain,  but  with  a  weaker  woman's  lowly  and  loving 
heart;  one  who  finds  in  the  use  of  her  manifold  gifts  their 
own  exceeding  great  and  rich  reward.  I  came  into  the  sphere 
of-  such  a  woman,  and  proved  myself  unworthy.  Victoire, 
forgive  me.  I  go  to  make  myself  indifferent.  We  shall  meet 
again ;  but  never  until  I  first  have  learned  to  find  lawful  hap 
piness  in  the  being  of  another.  •  Not  till  then  shall  I  have 
earned  the  right  to  look  into  your  face.  I  will  make  my  heart 
relinquish  you." 


HOPE. 

"  She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of  brightness, 

A  power  that  from  its  objects  scarcely  drew 
One  impulse  of  her  being — in  her  lightness 

Most  like  some  radiant  cloud  of  morning  dew, 
"Which  wanders  through  the  waste  air's  pathless  blue, 
To  nourish  some  far  desert ;  she  did  seem 

Beside  me,  gathering  beauty  as  she  grew, 
Like  the  bright  shade  of  some  immortal  dream 
t         "Which  walks,  when  tempest  sleeps,  the  waves  of  life's  dark  stream." 

As  I  read  the  last  words  of  his  letter,  it  dropped  from  my 
hands.  Weary  and  weak  with  long  anxiety  and  watching,  I 
wept  as  I  had  wept  but  once  in  my  life,  and  then  over  the 
new-made  grave  of  Frederick.  Alas !  too  true  were  his 
words :  "  Like  a  true  woman  you  rejected  my  love,  like  a 
true  woman  you  will  weep  for  want  of  the  very  gift  which 
you  would  not  take."  At  last  came  sleep. 

"  Sweet  child,  sleep ;  the  filmy-eyed 
Murmured,  Wouldst  thou  me  ?" 

Many,  many  weeks  had  passed  since  she  had  wrapped  me 
last  in  her  "  mantle  star-inwrought,"  or  in  words  less  Shel- 
leyic,  since  I  had  slept  soundly.  From  the  depth  of  a  profound 
slumber  I  opened  my  eyes  upon  a  new  life — one  just  emerged 
from  the  ruins  of  the  old.  With  an  outwardly  serene  and 
smiling  face  I  arose  and  went  back  to  my  duty  and  to  the 
love  that  was  left.  From  my  nature  something  had  been 
wrenched  away,  from  my  heart  something  had  been  torn  ; 
the  wound  might  heal,  but  the  scar  would  remain  for  ever, 
and  sometimes  it  would  bleed.  My  visible  life  seemed  pre 
cisely  what  it  was  at  the  same  time  in  the  summer  before. 


35° 


Victoire. 


There  were  my  pleasant  household  eaves,  my  painting,  my 
home  pupils,  which  now  claimed  an  accession  in  the  shape  of 
the  magpie  Azalie ;  my  books,  my  afternoon  rides  with  Ze- 
naide  ;  the  same  quiet,  the  same — no,  not  the  same  loneliness 
that  was  mine  one  year  before.  Then,  how  much  was  want 
ing ;  now,  how  much  had  gone!  Henri  fairly  back  into  the 
world,  found  a  multiplicity  of  affairs  claiming  his  undivided 
attention ;  therefore  I  saw  less  of  him  now  than  before  his 
illness.  Ever  kind,  he  was  now  most  gentle  to  me  always. 
There  was*something  very  like  tenderness  in  his  manner  when 
he  lingered  sometimes,  yet  he  would  go  promptly  to  the 
moment  as  of  old.  Before  his  sickness  this  strong  and  active 
man  found  his  most  positive  happiness  in  the  energetic, 
absorbing  occupation  of  a  man's  life ;  but  that  long  convales 
cence  had  made  him  feel,  what  he  believed  theoretically 
before,  that  there  is  something  richer  and  sweeter  in  life 
than  business  or  the  most  lofty  public  affairs.  "  Well,"  he 
called  himself,  yet  I  was  certain  that  physically  he  was  not 
the  strong  man  that  he  was  before.  Languor,  weakness,  to 
him  were  new  companions ;  so  were  the  needs  which  they 
brought  with  them — the  need  of  quiet,  of  rest,  the  need  of 
womanly  soothing  and  of  womanly  care.  Henri  was  evi-. 
dently  astonished  to  discover  such  unanticipated  needs  in 
himself;  he  thrust  them  quickly  to  one  side  as  unmanly 
weaknesses ;  he  went  and  came  at  the  call  of  duty  as  if  he 
did  not  feel  them  ;  but  I  could  detect  a  shade  of  difference  in 
his  going  and  coming.  Once  all  his  inclination  went  with 
what  he  called  "  duty ;"  now  his  inclinations  often  tempted 
him  to  remain ;  yet  duty  was  no  less  his  inexorable  master, 
no  less  promptly  and  perfectly  obeyed. 


I  had  anticipated  for  this  saddened  summer.  I  had  selected 
in  my  mind  the  company  of  "  friends"  who  should  gladden  it 
with  their  presence.  Months  before  I  heard  in  my  brain  the 
merry  patter  of  childish  feet,  the  velvet  fall  of  ladies'  slip 
pers  tripping  through  the  marbled  and  carpeted  halls;  I  had 
heard  the  refrain  of  their  merry  laughter  echoing  from  room 
to  room,  and  the  music  of  other  voices  blending  with  his  ; 
the  rich  tones  of  the  piano  floating  through  the  wide  apart 
ments.  I  had  travelled  through  all  the  splendors  of  my  fete 
champetre  ;  had  seen  just  the  effect  of  the  gorgeous-colored 
lights  streaming  through  the  dense  foliage  of  the  park,  wnile 


Hope.  391 

I  listened  in  fancy  to  the  wondrous  melody  of  Dodworth's 
band  swelling  through  those  umbrageous  arches  on  a  delicious 
"  stilly  night."  I  had  gone  on  further  into  the  season  when 
there  was  a  great  flying  about  of  maids  ironing  flounces  and 
*'  doing  up"  with  miraculous  skill  sheer  muslins  and  costly 
laces  ;  when  there  was  an  endless  amount  of  feminine  buzzing, 
flutter,  and  chatter ;  endless  consultations  on  the  becoming- 
ness  of  this  and  the  elegance  of  that;  an  agony  of  trunk- 
packing  lest  all  could  not  be  got  in ;  yet,  how  could  one 
article  of  wardrobe  be  spared  from  those  engulfing  trunks ; 
with  a  gay  dispersion  at  last  for  Nahant,  for  Newport,  and 
Saratoga.  And  I  remembered  distinctly  now  how  often  I  had 
wondered  whether  he  would  go  with  us,  or  with  them.  I  had 
not  made  two  months'  sickness  and  watching,  nor  the  other 
sad  changes  of  this  summer,  the  vestibule  of  these  gay 
festivities.  All  was  over  now;  life's  daily  routine  began 
again. 

Why  was  I  so  indifferent  regarding  my  "  friends  ?"  It  was 
not  too  late  even  now  to  invite  them  to  such  a  retreat  as  Bel 
Eden.  A  portion  at  least  would  be  glad  to  exchange  their 
quarters  at  an  over-crammed  watering-place  hotel  for  the 
inviting  coolness,  the  quiet  freedom,  the  beauty  and  luxuries 
of  Bel  Eden.  The  truth  happened  to  be  that  these  "  friends," 
like  the  mass  of  people  to  whom  we  unlawfully  give  this  holy 
name,  were  good  enough  sort  of  persons  in  their  several  ways. 
I  liked  them  very  well ;  a  few  I  liked  very  much  when  circum 
stances  brought  me  in  conjunction  with  them;  but  as  far  as 
soul-wants  were  concerned  I  did  not  need  them,  and  they  did 
not  need  me.  Very  fine  friends  we  were,  as  society  esti 
mates  friendship;  but  it  would  not  have  made  any  great 
inroads  upon  the  happiness  of  either  party  if  we  had  known 
for  a  certainty  that  we  should  never  have  set  our  mortal  eyes 
upon  each  other  again.  The  world  is  full  of  just  such  exalted 
friendships.  Very  selfish  it  was,  no  doubt,  but  you  know  that 
I  had  never  succeeded  in  annihilating  my  selfishness,  and  was 
not  now  in  that  self-abnegating  mood  which  inclined  me  to  fill 
my  house  with  people  when  I  did  not  want  them ;  when  the 
very  sound  of  their  voice  would  have  tortured  me ;  when 
their  aifected  quips  and  insipid  puns  would  have  jarred  sadly 
against  my  aching  heart.  I  knew  that  they  would  be  a  great 
bore  to  Henri,  but  if  they  had  not  been,  perhaps  I  should  have 
done  just  the  same. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  done  exactly  the 
opposite.  Serving  them  might  have  helped  me  to  forget  what 


Victoire. 

I  ought  to  have  forgotten.  But  I  felt  no  inclination  for  gay 
company,  nor  for  my  grand  fete  champetre,  nor  for  Nahant, 
nor  Newport,  nor  for  any  other  fashionable  resort  crowded 
with  all  the  world,  his  wife,  and  marketable  daughters.  Henri 
had  said :  "  Where  shall  we  go  ?"  but  I  knew  that  he  had 
said  it  only  for  my  sake,  desiring  nothing  so  much  for  himself 
as  the  quiet  and  rest  of  his  home ;  therefore  I  said  :  "  No 
where."  Then  I  went  back  to  my  CEnone.  I  began  (Enone 
amid  the  last  winter's  trance  of  happiness,  dreaming  as  all 
artists  dream  over  their  youngest  born — this  last  shall  excel 
all  before.  It  was  not  (Enone  alone,  but  CEnone  in  the  vale 
of  Ida: 

"There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  lawn  and  meadow  ledges  midway  down 

Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 

The  long  brook,  falling  through  the  cloven  ravine 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning ;  but  in  front 

The  gorges  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 

Troas,  and  Ilion's  columned  citadel 

The  crown  of  Troas.    Hither  came  at  noon 

Mournful  (Enone,  wandering  forlorn 

Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills." 

I  had  infused  into  the  coloring  of  this  classic  landscape 
all  the  warm  richness  with  which  my  soul  overflowed  in  those 
unkindled  hours.  It  was  steeped  in  a  soft  radiating  beauty, 
unshadowed  as  Eden  ere  the  curse  fell.  Now  I  had  come  to 
paint  amid  this  untouched  glory  "  Mournful  CEnone,"  "  whose 
cheek  had  lost  the  rose,"  "  whose  eyes  were  full  of  tears," 
who  could  only  sing : 

"  Oh,  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die." 

I  could  not  have  painted  CEnone  when  I  painted  the  vale  of 
Ida  ;  I  should  have  made  her  glad.  I  could  not  have  painted 
the  vale  of  Ida  now,  silent  and  happy  ;  no,  I  should  have  made 
it  sad.  After  a  great  change  has  fallen  upon  our  life  it  is 
hard  to  go  back  to  a  task  begun  when  the  world  seemed  so 
different ;  to  take  it  up  where  we  laid  it  down  in  a  summer 
hour;  and  go  on  with  it  just  the  same  as  if  that  which  made 
its  inspiration  was  still  our  own.  Still  to  keep  doing  when 
that  which  made  doing  sweet  is  gone,  ah  !  that  is  a  weary 
thing  for  those  whose  doing  well  depends  so  entirely  upon 


Hope. 


353 


the  sympathy  and  encouragement  of  those  whom  they  love. 
"  Everything  is  going  on  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened," 
people  sometimes  say  after  coining  from  a  house  in  which  there 
has  been  a  funeral.  Thus  we  can  bury  out  of  our  sight  our 
dearest  joy,  and  go  on  with  our  tasks  to  all  outward  eyes  as 
if  nothing  had  happened,  yet  not  just  the  same  ;  that  which 
yesterday  was  inspiration  to-day  is  only  toil. 

I  had  not  touched  this  picture  since  our  return  from  the 
city ;  there,  with  what  interest  he  had  watched  its  progress. 
When  I  feared  that  I  should  fail,  how  often  he  had  reassured 
me  by  telling  me  that  I  should  do  well ;  that  as  a  work  of 
art,  CEnone  would  far  transcend  Niobe.  I  might  have  begun 
a  new  picture  and  perhaps  found  inspiration  in  itself;  but  I 
could  not  in  this  which  had  grown  thus  far  beneath  his  eyes. 
How  I  missed  the  eager  and  approving  glance,  the  gentle 
criticism,  the  intuitive  recognition  of  beauty,  the  conscious 
ness  of  sympathy  such  as  had  never  been  vouchsafed  to  me 
before.  What  wonder  that  the  "  vale  of  Ida"  was  transcen 
dent  in  its  portrayed  loveliness.  The  vale  of  Ida  was  a  portion 
of  a  lost  existence;  CEnone  was  the  fitting  companion  of  to 
day.  I  could  embody  her.  Into  this  daughter  of  a  river-god 
could  I  not  infuse  all  my  own  want,  my  desolation,  my  re 
morse,  my  sorrow  ?  While  from  Ilion's  cliff  she  cried : 

"  Oh,  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die ! 
Hear  me,  O  earth  ;  I  will  not  die  alone, 
"Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  death 
Uncomforted." 

Morna,  too,  gone !  There  were  moments  when  my  palette 
would  drop  in  my  listless  hand  and  my  head  sink  against  my 
easel,  while,  in  my  great  loneliness,  I  longed  for  her.  Morna! 
friend  of  my  mind  and  heart,  beloved  companion,  sister  of 
my  deeper  soul,  nor  time  nor  distance  can  divide  us  !  No  less 
now  than  then  do  I  long  for  you.  No  change  can  come  to 
me,  nor  ever  any  joy  or  sorrow,  which  can  make  me  need  you 
less  or  love  you  less  entirely.  A  few,  perchance,  have  truly 
loved  me,  but  who  as  thou  ?  Who  else  so  patient  of  my 
errors,  so  forgiving  of  my  frailties  ?  I  might  grieve  and 
wound  you,  yet  you  would  not  drop  me  from  the  tender  arms 
of  your  enfolding  charity.  I  might  fall,  and  the  world  spurn 
and  curse  me,  yet  thou  wouldst  not  look  coldly  nor  forsake 
me ;  no,  all  the  more  sacredly  wouldst  thou  soothe  and 
cherish  me  because  fallen  and  forsaken.  I  have  known  many 
women  gifted,  beautiful  and  good  ;  among  them  all  I  have 


354 


Victoire. 


looked  in  vain  for  your  comprehensive  soul,  for  your  incapa 
city  for  all  littleness,  for  your  simple  greatness,,  your  sweet 
humility,  your  unfathomable  charity,  your  sacred  sadness — 
twin-sister  of  divinest  love,  born  of  the  Christ-like  pity  in 
your  soul  for  the  sorrows  of  all  living  creatures.  Sister,  en 
deared  by  those  long  days  of  privation  and  toil — by  working, 
waiting,  longing,  hoping,  and  belie^ng  shared  together ;  by 
the  kindred  aspiration,  the  perfect  communion,  the  hallowed 
joy  which  we  have  known ;  would  that  a  new  name  of  love 
would  drop  from  the  heart  of  Infinite  Love  above  us  with 
which  I  might  dower  thee !  But  the  summer  air,  perfumed 
with  the  life-wine  of  the  flowers  so  dear  to  you,  as  it  shimmers 
along  my  paper  andjipples  through  my  hair  in  assonant  ca 
dence  of  liquid  Latin,  murmurs  only  carissimaf  Never 
can  I  cease  to  need  thee — to  need  thee  or  to  long  for  thee, 
Morna,  carissima  ! 

Henri  wrote  fraternal  letters  to  Moncrieffe,  and  received 
fraternal  letters  in  reply.  Besides  the  common-place  "  kind 
regards  to  Mrs.  Rochelle,"  they  contained  no  message  for 
me.  Where  was  the  friend  who  so  lately  had  enriched  all 
my  life?  What  a  dreary  blank  divided  us;  what  an  im 
passable  chasm  which  nothing  could  span !  I  was  flooded 
with  letters — vapid,  lifeless,  well-meant,  good  enough  letters — 
which  one  worries  through  to  forget  the  moment  they  corne 
to  "  Yours,  etc."  A  few  were  full  of  life  and  love  ;  Morna's 
and  Hope's  were;  but  never  more  drew  near  my  ark  that 
white  dove  bearing  the  olive  and  the  mystic  myrtle.  But  the 
longest  year  is  a  little  while  ;  this  was  the  longest  one  which 
1  ever  knew,  yet  it  did  not  take  long  for  it  to  go.  Another 
came  and  brought  to  us  again  Hope  and  Morna.  Yes,  Hope 
had  come.  How  beautiful  she  was!  What  sunshine  came 
into  the  dwelling  with  her  fresh  young  life!  The  long  school 
years  were  ended,  and  there  was  nothing  to  take  our  dar 
ling  from  us  any  more.  The  rare  prophecy  of  her  child 
hood  was  more  than  fulfilled.  My  eyes  never  wearied  of 
gazing  upon  her ;  she  was  to  me  an  unceasing  marvel,  an  un 
failing  delight,  so  beautiful  she  was  in  motion  or  in  rest. 
Hers  was  the  rarest  order  of  beauty  ;  hovering  and  undefi- 
nable,  it  ever  suggested  a  beauty  beyond  itself.  Like  the 
beauty  of  a  rainbow,  or  a  perfect  flower,  or  a  strain  of  ravish 
ing  music,  it  thrilled  the  senses,  yet  hinted  at  something 
beyond  all  sensuous  delight — something  that  could  not  be 
re>olved  back  to  any  mere  fact  of  organism.  It  is  true 
Hope  was  no  illusion,  but  the  sweetest  of  realities.  The  per- 


Hope. 


355 


feet  form  was  tangible  ;  the  curved  cheek  with  its  peachy 
bloom,  the  luxuriant  h.-iir,  the  eye  with  its  depth  of  glory, 
were  physical  facts  ;  yet  it  was  the  effulgent  soul  which  made 
their  illumination,  which  surrounded  them  with  a  mystery  of 
beauty  and  inspiration  for  ever  felt,  and  for  ever  mocking  all 
solution.  Her  body  was  the  perfect  temple  of  a  still  more 
beautiful  soul ;  for  it  is  a  false  idea  that  in  the  divinest 
temples  of  clay  the  Creator  ever  enshrines  a  trivial  and  petty 
spirit.  It  is  true  that  the  Godlike  often  do  penance  in  hideous 
houses  of  flesh,  but  not  always.  When  God  himself  came  to 
earth  he  did  not  choose  a  defaced  and  distorted  body.  The 
image  of  Christ,  as  he  lives  in  the  universal  soul,  is  that  of  a 
sorrowful,  majestic,  and  beautiful  man. 

Hope  had  not  devoted  four  years  to  the  acquirement  of 
meretricious  airs  and  a  head  full  of  smatterings.  She  had 
not  returned  with  the  idea  that  she  was  "  finished,"  and  had 
nothing  more  to  do  but  to  forget  as  quickly  as  possible  the 
little  which  she  had  learned,  fold  her  hands  in  idleness,  and 
present  her  beautiful  face  as  an  advertisement  for  a  husband. 
In  a  being  so  perfectly  constituted,  it  was  impossible  that 
there  should  not  be  a  harmonious  development  of  all  the 
faculties.  Upon  a  nature  so  exquisitely  wrought,  intellectual 
discipline  could  have  only  its  finest  effect.  She  was  a  fine 
scholar;  in  solid  attainments  far  in  advance  of  most  educated 
girls  of  her  age,  yet  who  could  connect  the  idea  of  learning 
with  Hope  ?  She  seemed  so  like  a  fresh  incarnation  of  beauty, 
who  could  find  the  meaning  of  everything  worth  know 
ing  within  herself.  She  never  referred  to  what  she  knew ; 
never  quoted  the  last  book  which  she  had  read ;  never 
brought  forward  abstruse  themes,  saying  to  some  embarrassed 
mortal  who  did  not  know  "Of  course  you  know."  "The 

great ,  of  course  you  have  heard  of  him"  It  was  only 

in  the  deepened  expression  of  those  beautiful  eyes,  in  the 
subtle  flashes  of  unconscious  thought,  in  her  exquisite  taste 
and  perfected  grace,  that  we  saw  the  result  of  those  years. 
In  music  she  found  untrammelled  expression  ;  she  played  as 
if  by  instinct ;  and  her  voice,  cultivated  as  it  was,  seemed 
like  that  of  a  bird's,  filling  the  air  with  untaught  harmony.  I 
would  pause  and  listen  while  it  floated  up  to  me  as  I  sat  at 
my  work,  sometimes  soft  and  low  as  a  spirit's,  but  oftener  in 
glad  gushes  of  spontaneous  melody — the  music  of  a  heart  un 
touched  by  sorrow,  breathing  the  prelude  of  the  song  it  was 
yet  to  sing  with  the  angels. 

Yet  Hope  was  not  a  genius.      Why  should  she  be  ?     Why 


356 


Victoire. 


should  she  king  like  Morna,  or  paint  pictures  like  Yictoire, 
when  she  herself  was  a  sweeter  song  than  words  could  mea 
sure  ;  when  her  own  transcendent  loveliness  no  pencil  could 
portray  ?  She  lived  in  the  sunshine  which  her  own  spirit 
created.  She  possessed  such  a  susceptibility  to  happiness, 
no  joy  could  escape  her ;  and  the  light  which  she  exhaled 
from  every  object  around  her  she  radiated  back  upon  each 
heart  which  throbbed  within  the  circle  of  her  life.  She  lived 
out  the  beautiful  nature  which  God  had  given  her,  without 
knowing  that  it  was  beautiful.  She  felt  herself  to  be  the  child 
of  a  tender,  loving  Father,  and  simply  loved  and  obeyed 
Him  without  dreaming  of  merit  in  so  doing.  She  lived  in  a 
beautiful  world,  she  thought ;  God's  world,  overflowing  with 
all  lovely  and  enjoyable  things  ;  why  should  she  find  fault 
with  it  ?  Yet  she  was  alive  to  all  who  sorrowed  in  it, 
and  in  a  thousand  nameless  ways  brought  joy  to  aching 
hearts.  With  her  facile  power  of  adaptation,  she  glided  into 
a  knowledge  of  everybody's  wants,  and  supplied  them  from 
the  loving  wealth  of  her  own  heart,  unconsciously  to  herself 
and  perhaps  unconsciously  to  them.  A  perpetual  blessing, 
ever  doing  good,  she  never  dragged  about  with  her  the 
heavy  cross  of  duty  to  mankind^  the  name  which  some  of  the 
world's  dreary  philanthropists  give  to  their  own  all-devouring 
egotism.  Love  was  the  essence  of  her  being.  She  loved 
much,  and  because  she  demanded  nothing  in  return,  she  re 
ceived  much,  ever  accepting  as  a  gift,  never  as  a  reward. 

Thus  she  lived,  a  pure  spiritual  force,  yet  one  unconsciously 
to  herself,  almost  unconsciously  to  those  who  knew  her  best. 
Most  of  all,  we  knew  that  she  was  our  darling,  that  there 
was  something  of  magic  in  her  presence,  that  Bel  Eden  was 
brighter  since  she  came,  that  the  very  paintings  on  the  walls, 
the  flowers  in  the  vases  and  in  the  garden,  everything,  our 
human  hearts  included,  seemed  to  feel  the  inspiration  of  her 
presence,  the  quickening  joy  of  her  young  life.  Yet  there 
was  so  much  of  the  child  in  her  sportive  grace — something 
that  looked  so  like  weakness  in  her  guilelessness,  something 
in  her  unworldliness  which  sued  so  meekly  for  protection, 
that  we  loved  her  still  as  a  child,  never  dreaming  all  that  she 

_     J      • f  .  »  O 


flattery  and  adulation,  the  temptations  of  folly,  the  allure 
ments  of  pleasure.  Who  could  behold  her  beauty  unmoved  ? 
Who  could  know  her  and  not  love  her  ?  I  knew  all  this,  but 


Hope.  357 

I  knew  also  that  the  purity  of  her  soul  was  a  God-given 
amulet;  that  wearing  it,  all  the  fipers  of  the  world  might 
touch  her,  yet  would  they  drop  off  and  leave  no  sign. 

I  had  learned  to  believe  my  life  a  happy  life;  the  old  exist 
ence  seemed  very  far  off,  yet  it  lay  only  one  year  away.  I 
said  to  myself,  "  I  no  longer  regret  it."  The  grave  which  I 
made  there  1  have  planted  thick  with  flowers ;  it  scarcely 
seems  like  a  grave.  He  went  forth  to  make  himself  indif 
ferent  ;  I,  too,  am  indifferent.  The  scar  in  my  soul  is  well 
healed  ;  it  would  take  much  to  make  it  bleed  again. 

It  was  one  of  the  first  grand  soirees  of  a  gay  season,  which 
we  were  to  attend  that  evening.  I  had  dressed  Hope  myself, 
to  the  great  indignation  of  Azalie,  who  now  delighted  to  re 
gard  herself  as  Mademoiselle  Hope's  exclusive,/?^  de  ckambre. 
Greater  prizes  were  at  stake  in  Mademoiselle's  toilet.  How 
could  Azalie  tell  what  great  fortune  it  might  make  for 
Mademoiselle,  and  perhaps  for  Azalie  ?  Madame's  fortune 
was  made  already,  besides  Mademoiselle  was  never  queer,  like 
Madame — stayed  dressed  just  as  Azalie  di-essed  her,  never  tore 
off  her  beautiful  robes  when  there  was  no  occasion.  But  I 
had  set  my  heart  on  dressing  Hope  myself  this  evening ;  hav 
ing  bought  Azalie's  reluctant  good-nature  with  a  present, 
after  a  succession  of  pouts  she  condescended  to  proclaim  her 
self  "  enchanted."  , 

As  an  artist,  beauty  was  to  me  a  necessity.  I  worshipped 
it  in  every  form  ;  but  to  have  a  soul  whom  I  loved  enshrined 
in  so  peerless  a  casket,  was  an  inexpressible  bliss,  and  if  any 
thing  could  have  spoiled  Hope,  it  would  have  been  my  foolish 
idolatry  of  her  loveliness.  To-night  she  wore  a  dress  of  white 
tulle,  festooned  with  rose-buds  and  lily  of  the  valley.  Her 
graceful  head  wore  no  adornment  save  the  glory  of  its  bur 
nished  hair.  I  looked  at  her  in  triumph.  The  effect  of  her 
unadorned  beauty  was  wonderful.  As  we  entered  the  draw 
ing-room,  I  felt  a  thrill  of  delight  as  I  marked  the  suppressed 
yet  visible  admiration  which  greeted  her  and  followed  her, 
and  afterwards  in  watching  the  homage  which  she  elicited, 
the  love  which  she  spontaneously  won. 

As  usual  in  such  assemblies,  at  last  the  room  grew  crowded, 
the'  heat  oppressive.  Weary  of  looking  and  listening,  of  bow 
ing,  smiling,  and  talking,  I  was  glad  to  find  the  recess  of  a 
lace-shaded  bay-window,  where  I  could  breathe  the  clear 
winter  air  wandering  in  from  under  the  stars.  I  sat  down  a 
moment  apart,  gazing  at  the  throbbing  tide  of  human  life 
flowing  through  the  apartments,  at  the  few  happy  and  many 


358 


Victoire. 


weary  faces ;  at  the  braided  beauty,  splendor,  grace  ;  the 
magnificent  costumes  of  velvet,  satin,  silk  and  lace,  crowned 
•with  flowers  sown  with  diamonds  and  pearls;  listening  to  the 
flutter  of  fans,  the  buzz  and  hum  of  congregated  voices,  blended 
with  the  swells  and  falls  of  the  orchestra ;  and,  having  ex 
hausted  all  of  these,  fell  to  studying  the  devices  of  the  cornices 
girdling  the  lofty  walls  with  golden  vines  and  fruitage,  and  the 
rare  carved  devices  on  the  antique  rosewood  doors — when 
suddenly  a  chill  swept  over  me.  I  was  possessed  with  the 
sudden  consciousness  of  an  intimate  human  presence.  My 
eye  followed  its  attraction.  Opposite  me  stood  Hope,  and  by 
her  side  stood  Moncrieffe.  Henri  was  there,  too,  apparently 
looking  amid  the  gay  crowd  for  me. 

As  I  looked  the  shudder  passed  off,  leaving  me  cold  as 
marble.  I  saw  only  him  and  her.  I  felt  no  power  to  stir.  I 
could  not  look  another  way.  Was  it  a  vision  ?  No,  it  was 
Moncrieffe.  Could  I  mistake  that  face — that  form  ?  No,  there 
he  stood ;  the  same,  yet  not  the  same.  There  was  a  chastened 
and  quiet  expression  in  the  countenance,  a  look  almost  sad, 
yet  I  could  hardly  call  it  that ;  it  was  the  lingering  shadow 
of  a  sadness  passed  away.  The  imperial  face,  softened,  ele 
vated,  purified — never  had  I  seen  it  so  sublimely  beautiful 
before.  Still  I  looked.  Not  two  years  had  passed  since  we 
parted  at  the  threshold  of  Bel  Ecjen  ;  had  it  been  ages  he 
could  not  have  seemed  more  remote  from  me  than  he  did  with 
only  the  width  of  the  drawing-room  between  us.  How  did  I 
know,  as  I  gazed  at  him  now,  that  his  work  was  accomplished  ? 
that  his  heart  had  relinquished  me  ?  Why  was  Hope  by  his 
side  ?  Had  they  just  met  ?  Had  they  met  before  ?  It  mat 
tered  not.  It  was  enough  that  I  read  their  destiny,  that  I  saw 
their  future.  Yet  my  heart  grew  strangely  calm  ;  it  seemed 
frozen ! 

For  this  had  I  loved  this  child  ?  Her  sweetness  would  have 
been  wasted,  she  might  have  been  blighted,  trampled  under 
foot  in  the  horrid  dens  of  poverty  if  my  love  had  not  rescued 
her.  For  this  had  I  loved  and  nourished  the  bud  to  a  rare 
and  perfect  flower,  to  be  gathered  by  his  hands  ?  Was  it  for 
this  that  I  had  loved  and  suffered?  I  thought  that  I 
had  conquered.  Why  could  not  fate  spare  me  such  a 
test  ? 

Still  I  gazed.  I  knew  those  faces.  Not  a  light  or  shadow, 
not  a  thought  or  feeling  had  ever  kindled  or  shaded  the  ex 
quisite  features  of  either  which  I  did  not  know.  The  look  in 
his  eyes  now,  I  knew.  I  had  seen  it,  felt  it ;  once  it  was  mine  ; 


Hope.  359 

never  before  had  I  seen  him  give  it  to  another.  It  was  the 
look  which  won  my  heart  away  long  years  before  beside  the 
dead  body  of  my  brother.  I  had  seen  him  smile,  had  seen 
him  converse  with  women  before,  even  in  that  very  room  ^ 
but  never  with  that  look  and  manner.  And  Hope !  a  new  life 
seemed  born  in  her  face — her  whole  being  responded  to  his 
soul.  She  did  not  know  it,  but  he  was  winning  her  heart  away 
from  her  as  he  had  won  mine  from  me.  Fool,  sinner,  I  called 
myself,  as  suddenly  the  consciousness  of  my  thought  fell  upon 
me.  I  had  risen,  and  Henri,  discovering  my  outline  through 
the  lace  drapery,  immediately  crossed  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know  that  MoncriefFe  is  here  ?"  he  asked.  "  I 
think  that  I  was  never  quite  so  much  astonished  in  my  life. 
He  has  returned  as  suddenly  as  he  departed.  He  is  a  queer 
fellow." 

I  took  Henri's  proffered  arm  and  crossed  the  room.  We 
did  "  meet  again."  As  our  eyes  met,  a  change  so  slight  that 
it  would  have  escaped  a  casual  observer  passed  over  his  face. 
1  forced  mine  to  smile,  whatever  hb  discovered  beneath  its 
mask. 

"  I  am  happy  to  meet  you  again,"  he  said,  taking  my  hand 
kindly  and  frankly.  "  You  see  that  I  have  already  appro 
priated  a  portion  of  your  family,"  he  added,  looking  down 
upon  Hope. 

The  eloquent  blood,  for  ever  coming  and  going  on  her  trans 
parent  cheek,  deepened  at  his  words. 

"  You  have  a  certain  right  of  possession,  perhaps  you  think," 
I  answered. 

"  No ;  no  right,  unless  you  bestow  it,"  he  said,  with  a  look 
of  pain. 

Henri  had  many  questions  to  ask.  The  conversation  was 
free  and  general.  We  lingered  together  as  long  as  politeness 
would  allow,  and  parted  with  an  engagement  to  meet  upon 
the  morrow.  I  fancied  that  I  had  played  my  part  well,  felt  a 
sort  of  miserable  triumph  that  I  had  not  betrayed  my  weak 
ness.  During  our  drive  home  I  was  strangely  gay.  When 
had  I  found  so  much  at  a  party  to  be  pleased  with,  so  much 
to  talk  and  laugh  about  before  ?  Hope  was  as  strangely  silent. 
To  Henri  this  had  been  neither  more  stupid  nor  interesting 
than  any  other  party,  but  it  had  animated  him  to  meet  Mon- 
crieffe.  He  returned  home  to  sleep  the  calm  sleep  of  an  un 
disturbed  heart  and  peaceful  conscience.  I  went  to  my 
dressing-room,  sent  away  Azalie,  who  began  to  ask  a  thousand 
questions,  telling  her  that  Hope  would  describe  the  beautiful 


360  Victoire. 

costumes;  that  I  had  forgotten  them.  1  was  alone  at  last.  I 
could  be  honest  now. 

A  sudden  thought  took  possession  of  me.  I  arose  and  went 
to  the  mirror.  I  wore  a  dress  of  crimson  velvet,  the  high 
corsage  laced  and  edged  with  pearls;  my  hair  was  confined 
with  a  bandeau  of  pearls  wrought  in  lilies.  I  looked  only  nt 
my  face.  I  scanned  it  with  the  eye  of  keenest  criticism.  It 
was  no  longer  a  young  girl's  face.  Not  old,  oh,  no  ;  twenty- 
five  is  not  old,  I  said ;  yet  before  very  long  it  will  have  ceased 
to  be  young.  Already  the  rounded  outline  of  earliest  youth  has 
gone.  Time  has  not  worn  it,  but  thought  and  feeling  have 
left  their  traces.  There  is  glory  in  the  hair,  depth  of  power 
in  the  eyes,  something  in  this  face  which  makes  people  look ; 
but  after  looking  a  long  time,  they  are  not  always  certain  what 
it  is.  All  come  to  different  conclusions ;  what  one  calls  its 
beauty  another  calls  its  genius,  and  another  its  haughtiness. 
But  it  is  not  a  beautiful  face.  Oh,  no ;  not  beautiful  as  Hope's 
is  beautiful.  I  never  cared  before  that  she  was  so  much  love 
lier.  Just  then  I  heard  a  slight  stir  as  of  rustling  robes,  and 
turning,  I  saw  Hope  in  her  white  vestments  standing  in  the 
open  door.  I  gave  her  the  displeased  look  of  one  suddenly 
detected  in  an  act  not  altogether  creditable.  Her  step  faltered 
as  if  she  didn't  know  whether  to  enter  or  retire. 

"Come,"  I  said,  "you  are  not  frightened,  are  you,  to  find 
me  looking  in  the  glass?  Don't  you  know  that  this  is  the 
special  employment  of  ladies  who  begin  to  suspect  that  they 
are  not  as  handsome  as  formerly  ?" 

She  moved  slightly  forward,  but  not  with  the  light  spring 
with  which  she  usually  approached.  There  was  a  sharpness  in 
my  tone  which  she  had  never  felt  before;  it  pierced  her  loving 
heart.  I  saw  how  she  was  affected,  and  the  sight  only  irritated 
me. 

"  Why,  Hope,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  actually  appear 
afraid  of  me.  Have  I  suddenly  grown  so  terrible  to  you  ?" 

"  No,  dear  Victoire ;  only  I  never  saw  you  look  at  me  so 
before.  Have  I  done  anything  to  displease  you  ?  Do  tell  me, 
so  that  I  may  never  do  it  any  more." 

"  How  foolish  !  Do  you  ever  displease  me  ?  Am  I  not  al 
ways  delighted  with  you?  Does  not  everybody  say  that  I 
shall  certainly  spoil  you  with  excessive  fondness?  I  was 
startled,  for  I  thought  you  in  bed  long  ago." 

"  Oh,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not  sleep.  I  saw  a  light  in  your 
room,  and  came  in  to  say  good-night." 

"  Well,  come,  pet,"  iWd,  holding  out  my  arms.     "  To  tell 


Hope.  361 

the  truth,  I  was  vexed  because  you  found  me  doing  a  foolish 
thing.  But  you  will  forgive  me,  will  you  not  ?  You  know 
that  I  love  you." 

She  came  as  was  her  wont,  and  laid  her  beautiful  head  upon 
my  shoulder.  There  she  lay  for  a  longer  time  than  usual,  and 
I  looked  down  into  her  eyes  without  a  word. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so,  Victoire  ?"  she  asked.  "  I 
never  saw  you  have  such  a  sad  look  in  your  eyes  before  ;  never. 
Tell  me,  and  let  me  love  it  away." 

"  Yes,  you  will  love  it  away,"  I  answered.  My  words  had 
a  different  meaning  from  hers,  and  she  did  not  know  it. 

"  Can  I  ?     What  is  it  that  makes  you  so  sad  ?" 

"My  own  wicked  heart;  that  is  all,  child." 

"  Victoire,  why  do  you  talk  so  ?  If  you  are  wicked  then  I 
am  very  wicked." 

"  That  does  not  follow,  Hope.  We  have  opposite  natures. 
You  will  never  have  to  struggle  as  I  do  to  conquer  yourself. 
Your  walk  to  heaven  will  be  much  easier  than  mine.  You 
seize  nothing  with  such  a  death  grasp  that  you  can  never  let 
it  go.  Thus  I  seize  everything  that  I  love.  It  seems  as 
if  I  never  could  give  up  an  idol,  never  ;  and  yet  I  must  and 
will." 

"I  don't  see  what  has  changed  your  feelings,"  she  said. 
"  I  thought  that  you  were  very  gay  coming  home.  You  looked 
splendid  to-night.  I  heard  more  than  one  say  so." 

"  Who  said  so  ?" 

"  Mr. and  Mrs. ,  and — " 

"  Never  mind.  I  dare  say  that  I  looked  quite  as  well  as  I 
felt.  You  were  happy  to-night,  Hope." 

'•  Yes,  so  happy.     I  am  happy  now." 

"  Why  more  happy  to-night  than  usual  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Am  I  happier  than  usual  ?  Life  all  the  time  looks  beauti 
ful.  "God  has  given  me  so  much ;  you,  and  Henri,  and  Morna. 
Life  is  so  rich." 

"  Yes,  rich  for  you ;  may  it  never  be  poorer,"  I  said,  as  I 
loosened  my  arms  and  kissed  her  good-night. 

Never  had  I  seen  her  more  radiantly  beautiful  than  now. 
Neither  of  us  had  mentioned  Moncrieffe.  I  looked  after  her 
as  she  glided  out  of  the  room.  Sweet  child,  I  thought,  you 
have  your  heart  yet  to  learn,  may  you  never  have  it  to  con 
quer. 


362 


Victoire. 


JEALOUSY CONQUEST. 


He  came,  and  I  had  full  opportunity  to  see  and  feet  all  the 
change  which  those  two  years  had  wrought.  The  suave 
manner,  the  high-born  grace,  characterized  him  as  of  old ; 
while  the  fitfulness  of  mood  which  Henri  had  marked 
before  his  departure  had  entirely  disappeared.  His  beautiful 
repose  of  bearing  seemed  to  flow  from  the  serenity  of  a  soul 
which  had  suffered,  yet  outlived  its  suffering;  which  had 
ceased  eagerly  to  anticipate,  yet  was  ready  calmly  to  enjoy. 
Yet  this  very  serenity  seemed  a  sleeping  strength,  which  s;iid 
in  every  action:  "I  rule  my  own  spirit."  There  was  no 
affectation,  no  constraint,  yet  there  was  less  spontaneity  of 
utterance,  a  reticence  which  left  no  room  for  impulse;  the 
growth  of  chastening,  of  discipline,  of  experience.  He  was 
more  than  kind  to  me,  but  it  was  the  frank  tenderness  of  a 
brother  for  a  sister,  hiding  nothing  beneath  it  deeper  or 
sweeter.  The  careful  reserve  which  once  marked  his  manner 
towards  me  was  all  gone ;  it  was  no  longer  necessary.  He 
made  no  outward  demonstration  of  a  preference  for  Hope  ; 
he  neither  sought  nor  avoided  her.  Yet  I,  who  knew  those 
eyes  as  well  as  the  forms  of  beauty  which  they  loved,  saw 
with  what  a  calm  delight  they  ever  turned  to  that  pure  young 
face,  and  what  a  look  of  peace  stole  into  their  depths  while 
gazing  upon  that  soft  and  soothing  loveliness.  Even  then 
I  thought  that  I  read  in  the  deep  quiet  of  those  eyes'  expres 
sion  :  "  This  is  my  recompense.  I  have  wrestled  with  myself 
and  conquered  ;  this  costly  gift  the  kind  God  bestows  as  my 
reward.  The  night  of  passion  has  fled  ;  in  this  beautiful 
being  I  behold  the  promise  of  a  calm,  transcendent  day." 

How  was  it  with  me  ?  Was  I  indifferent  as  I  had  supposed  ? 
The  love  that  I  had  thought  dead,  was  it  dead  ?  Or  was  it 
only  buried — buried  alive,  and  because  alive,  ready  to  writhe, 
and  moan,  and  suffer?  Alas!  how  often  that  which  we  call 
dead  is  only  asleep  within  us,  ready  to  awake  the  first  instant 
it  is  touched  by  the  power  which  kindled  it  into  being.  We 
think  that  we  gauge  our  hearts  ;  some  unexpected  phase  in  life, 
some  sudden  revelation  or  temptation  presently  shows  us  that 
we  are  slightly  different  from  what  we  suspected.  With  all 
our  soul-probing  there  were  some  little  unguarded  corners 
which  we  did  not  find.  I  honestly  believed  that  I  had  re 
nounced  Moncrieffe.  It  was  true  I  had  relinquished  him  for 
myself;  but  I  had  not  renounced  him  for  another. 


Jealousy — Conquest.  363 

Here  was  an  opportunity  to  be  great  and  magnanimous.  I 
am  sorry  that  I  was  neither.  I  am  very  sure  that  I  was 
not  at  all  magnanimous.  I  had  besought  Moncrieffe  to  be 
true  to  duty  and  honor,  true  to  himself;  now  that  he  was 
obeying  me,  proving  that  he  could  be  strong,  I  was  wretched 
that  he  was  not  weak.  If,  when  out  in  the  world  far  from  me, 
he  had  wooed  and  wedded  a  wife,  I  should  have  breathed  a 
sigh,  and  have  gone  on  my  way,  coldly  and  quietly,  saying : 
"  It  is  well."  "  It  is  better  thus."  Then  I  should  have 
known  nothing  of  the  torture  to  which  I  was  subjected  now. 
But  no  ;  he  had  come  back  to  my  home ;  and  the  one  object 
in  the  world  on  which  his  heart  had  fastened  was  the  ewe- 
lamb  which  I  had  cherished  in  my  bosom. 

If  she  had  sought  to  win  him  with  beautiful  arts  and  co 
quetries,  I  could  have  hated  the  very  beauty  which  for  so 
many  years  had  been  my  delight.  But  no,  there  were  no  arts, 
no  efforts  to  win  ;  she  was  only  her  own  self,  and  because  her 
self,  it  was  impossible  not  to  love  her.  I  knew  that  he  was  an 
idolator  of  the  beautiful.  Could  I  wonder  that  he  was  moved 
by  human  loveliness  which  was  only  the  melodious  symbol  of 
the  perfect  and  the  spiritual  ?  Is  not  all  beauty  spiritual  ?  Is 
not  beauty  ever  a  suggestion,  never  a  fulfilment  ?  That  which 
can  be  perfectly  defined  is  not  beauty.  When  it  hovers  about 
human  features,  glances  from  a  human  eye,  it  ever  hints  at  the 
incomprehensible,  at  the  unattained.  When  the  spirit  within 
fails  to  fulfil  the  promise  of  the  perfect  face,  even  its  wor 
shipper  is  filled  with  a  vague  sense  of  disappointment,  and, 
passing  on  amid  other  beautiful  forms,  still  seeks  the  divine 
ideal. 

Moncrieffe  unconsciously  was  verifying  his  own  words : 
"  Love  is  eternal,  but  its  objects  change."  He  might  have  said, 
they  increase.  The  soul,  like  a  wave,  is  for  ever  widening — 
widening  out  to  absorb  and  to  be  absorbed  of  others.  A  soul 
fulfils  its  mission  to  us ;  we  enter  into  closer  kinship,  or  grow 
apart.  The  law  of  growth  constantly  forces  us  into  new  re 
lationships  with  those  nearest  to  us,  or  else  thrusts  us  for  ever 
'asunder.  Thus  it  happens,  that,  of  those  who  for  a  time  walk 
the  life-path  together,  a  few  go  on  before,  and  many  are  left 
behind.  Thus  it  happens  that  we  so  often  say  to  one  stand 
ing  far  apart  from  us :  "  We  were  all  the  world  to  each  other 
once;  we  are  nothing  now." 

It  was  impossi  le  that  Moncrieffe  and  I  should  return  to  our 
old  relations ;  they  belonged  to  the  past,  and  henceforth  couM 
be  only  a  memory.  Had  the  pent  and  passionate  love  of  hia 


Victoire. 

heart  been  offered  to  me  to-day,  I  would  have  refused  it 
no  less  utterly  now,  than  then.  Yet  strange,  sad  inconsistency 
of  the  human  heart,  if  possible  I  would  have  prevented  that 
love  from  being  proffered  to  another  ! 

We  returned  to  Bel  Eden  early  that  season.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  first  time  which  Moncrieffe  came;  the  first  time 
that  his  eye  had  rested  on  Bel  Eden  since  that  memorial  night 
when  he  parted  with  me  at  its  threshold.  Henri  paused  a 
moment  in  the  portico,  where  Morna  and  Hope  were  sitting, 
to  distribute  between  them  sundry  parcels  and  letters  which 
the  mail  had  brought ;  while  Moncrieffe,  after  a  brief  greeting, 
walked  quietly  into  the  drawing-room.  Opposite,  as  he  enter 
ed,  hung  the  painting  of  QEnone,  which  all  connoisseurs  de 
clared,  as  a  work  of  art,  far  excelled  all  that  I  had  before 
attempted.  He  knew  the  vale  in  Ida;  his  living  eyes  had 
feasted  on  its  living  beauty  in  his  wanderings  beyond  the 
^Egean  sea ;  this  faint  similitude  of  its  classic  loveliness  had 
grown  beneath  his  eye ;  his  aesthetic  taste  had  decided  many 
of  its  lights  and  shadows.  Long  before,  he  had  watched  "  the 
noonday  quiet  hold  the  hill;  the  grasshopper  silent  in  the 
grass  ;  the  lizard  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone,  resting  like  a 
shadow  ;  the  cicola  asleep  ;  the  golden  bees,  lily-cradled." 

"Still  at  his  feet  the  crocus  broke  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotus  and  lilies. 

Overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon, 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  aud  berry,  and  flower  through  and  through." 

A  shadow  had  stolen  across  this  beauty  since  he  last  beheld 
it.  Now  sorrowful  CEnone  stood  on  "the  knolls  of  Ida." 
Leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with  vine,  she  sang  to  the 
stillness.  "  Beautiful-browed,  mournful  (Enone,  still  wander 
ing  forlorn,  for  Paris  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills."  All  of 
loneliness  and  of  sorrow,  all  of  remorse  and  love,  looked  from 
her  beautiful  and  burdened  eyes.  No  voice  of  encourage 
ment,  no  word  of  praise  had  added  inspiration  to  her  being. 
No  criticism,  however  sharp,  no  blame,  however  severe,  could 
have  hindered  her  existence ;  I  could  have  said  this  of  no  other 
work  which  I  had  done.  But  (En6ne  was  the  offspring  of  my 
highest,  most  sacred  soul ;  in  her  •!  had  embodied  my  own 
deepest  life.  She  seemed  no  portion  of  the  gorgeous  beauty 
amid  which  she  stood.  A  most  lovely  yet  sorrowful  mortal 


Jealousy — Conquest.  365 

shadow,  she  would  haunt  its  brightness  but  a  moment  with 
her  song  and  her  sorrow,  ere  she  passed  on  to  Troas  or  laid 
down  to  die. 

The  vale  of  Ida  stretched  before  him,  the  reflex  of  a  brief, 
delirious  Elysium  of  being,  in  which  he  and  another  soul  had 
lived  two  years  ago.  GEnone  stood  before  him  like  a  living 
ghost  just  arisen  from  the  tomb  of  the  past.  As  he  looked 
into  that  face,  the  deathly  pallor  which  I  had  seen  sweep  over 
his  own  twice,  smote  it  again.  He  turned  from  that  pictured 
face  to  mine,  as  I  sat  in  the  recess  of  an  open  oriel  window. 
All  the  love,  the  sorrow,  the  sacrifice  of  a  life  seemed  gather 
ed  in  that  gaze,  as  he  turned  upon  me  his  silent  eyes.  A  great 
emotion,  long  mastered,  suddenly  surged  back  with  resistless 
might.  Tenderness  such  as  I  dreamed  not  could  pour  from 
the  eyes  of  man  upon  woman,  brooded  over  me.  Utter  love, 
utter  abnegation,  met  in  that  one  gaze  ;  it  was  the  final  seal 
of  renunciation  ;  it  was  never  repeated.  Memory  seized  it  as 
an  immortal  dower,  the  most  sacred,  the  last. 

Hope  tripped  in  with  a  carolling  laugh  and  an  open  letter ; 
how  eagerly  he  turned  towards  that  young  face  as  if  it  was  a 
refuge  from  himself.  During  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
how  often  and  intently  he  looked  upon  it.  I  understood  it 
now ;  in  this  face  he  found  rest.  I  recalled  the  words  which 
long  before  he  had  written  to  me  concerning  it : — 

"  After  a  great  storm  of  soul,  I  can  imagine  how  I  might 
find  heavenly  peace  in  gazing  on  such  a  face ;  imagine  with 
what  warmth  of  healing  the  celestial  sunlight  of  such  a  spirit 
would  fall  on  the  ruins  of  my  own — filling  me  with  tenderest 
affection^  yet  kindling  not  a  grand  inspiration." 

No,  my  chamber  in  his  soul  was  barred  and  solitary.  The 
bar  would  never  be  taken  down,  the  door  would  never  be 
opened,  that  another  might  go  in  and  take  possession.  He 
loved  Hope  ;  yes,  I  was  sure  that  he  loved  her — loved  her  with 
just  th'e  pure,  beautiful  affection  which  her  nature  inspired. 
She  filled  her  own  niche  in  his  soul,  not  mine.  Had  it  not  been 
for  that  revelation  beside  CEnone,  I  should  never  have  known 
but  that  he  himself  had  thrust  me  out — not  because  it  was 
right,  but  because  he  was  indifferent.  Every  other  painting 
of  mine  he  had  criticised,  but  he  never  criticised  CEnone.  No 
comment  concerning  it  ever  passed  his  lips  ;  he  made  one  re 
quest  regarding  it,  but  that  was  months  afterwards. 

The  glory  of  the  summer  deepened,  and  so  the  glory  deep 
ened  in  the  eyes  of  Hope.  The  gay  girl-heart  was  feeling  the 
first  low  thrills  of  that  mysterious  power  of  love  which  makes 


366 


Victoire. 


the  greatness,  the  strength,  and  the  weakness  of  woman. 
It  was  the  dawn  of  the  great  awakening  of  her  nature,  which 
in  her  would  be  pure  and  holy,  never  awful  in  its  misdirected 
or  thwarted  force. 

Yet  the  word  had  not  been  spoken  ;  the  tale  of  love  had 
not  been  told  by  him.  Well  I  knew  what  Hope  in  her  inno 
cence  could  never  dream,  that  there  was  a  very  different  story 
to  be  told,  a  very  different  confession  to  be  made,  before  Mon- 
crieffe  would  allow  himself  to  utter  to  her  words  of  affection. 
I  knew  what  sin  it  was  which  lay  heavy  on  Moncrieffe's  con 
science  ;  that  he  both  dreaded,  and  sought  eagerly  the  day 
when  he  might  confess  to  his  friend  the  wrong  which  in  a 
moment  of  weakness  he  was  ready  to  have  done  him.  In  the 
delicious  stir  of  her  new  happiness,  she  little  dreamed  that 
Henri,  with  his  unclouded  judgment,  his  strong,  true  heart, 
was  to  be  the  arbiter  of  her  fate.  Hope  was  not  without  the 
usual  train  of  admirers  and  lovers  which  the  most  beautiful 
girl  of  a  metropolitan  winter  season  would  be  likely  to  inspire. 
She  had  met  men,  who,  judged  by  all  the  accepted  stand 
ards  of  society,  were  at  least  in  many  respects  the  equals 
of  Moncrieffe.  But  Hope  knew  nothing  of  coquetries,  and 
it  was  impossible,  at  least  for  me,  not  to  see  who  alone  inspired 
her;  who  it  was  whose  simple  presence  made  all  her  face  and 
being  radiant ;  to  whom  she  turned  as  naturally  as  a  flower 
turns  its  face  to  the  sun ;  whom  she  instinctively  obeyed  and 
studied  to  please,  without  being  conscious  that  she  was  so 
doing ;  who  had  the  power  to  draw  her  out  beyond  her  usual 
self,  till  in  all  which  she  did  for  him,  she  far  transcended  her 
ordinary  beauty  and  grace.  Her  exquisite  tone  and  touch 
thrilled  with  tenfold  sweetness  when  she  sang  and  played  for 
him  ;  yet  all  was  spontaneous  and  unconscious.  Had  it  been 
suddenly  revealed  to  her  how  deeply  she  was  swayed  by  him, 
she  would  have  been  shocked,  and  have  deplored  without  stint 
what  she  would  have  called  her  wickedness.  Was  he  indif 
ferent  ?  Did  you  ever  see  a  man  so  near  being  an  archangel 
that  he  could  receive  with  perfect  indifference  the  involuntary 
homage  of  a  beautiful  woman  ? 

Outwardly  it  was  a  gay  summer  at  Bel  Eden.  All  that 
troop  of  "  friends"  which  I  had  been  so  selfishly  indifferent 
about  two  years  before,  came  and  went  at  their  pleasure. 
Parties  stopped  for  a  few  days'  visit  on  their  hither  and  thither 
way  from  mountains  and  springs.  Zenaide  and  Pontiff  had 
many  prancing  companions  now  cantering  with  them  through 
the  shady  avenues.  There  were  sensible  people  who  in  de- 


Jealousy — Conquest.  367 

lighted  silence  watched  the  sunsets  fuse  the  world  in  glory ; 
and  there  were  twittering  misses  who  made  many  weak  ex 
clamations' over  the  same  ;  there  were  young  ladies  who  doated 
on  flowers  and  fountains,  and  evening  rambles  in  moonlit,  leafy- 
alleys,  especially  when  they  could  be  enjoyed  with  fascinating 
gentlemen  companions.  Thus  it  happened  that  now,  when  I 
sat  in  portico  or  piazza  in  these  summer  twilights,  the  lovely 
world  around  Bel  Eden  was  no  longer  quiet  as  of  old  ;  white 
robes  gleamed  along  the  embowered  walks,  and  I  caught 
glimpses  of  fair  faces  through  the  vistas  of  the  trees.  As  the 
dimness  deepened  I  could  discover  manly  arms  drawing  in 
near  proximity  to  delicate  waists,  while  I  doubt  not  sonorous 
voices  murmured  into  eager  ears  stories  too  sweet  for  the  day 
to  hear  or  for  me  to  repeat  on  paper. 

The  weeks  were  crowded  with  fetes  and  excursions',  "With 
regattas  on  the  river,  pic-nics  in  the  park.  The  house  was  full 
of  gay  voices ;  snatches  of  laughter  and  song  gushed  back  and 
forth  from  room*to  room.  There  was  mirth  and  music,  gossip 
ing  and  novel-reading,  to  preserve  women  amiable  through  the 
fiery  fervor  of  the  solstice.  There  was  the  plash  of  many 
fountains  to  steal  through  their  senses  with  a  thrill  of  cool 
ness  in  spite  of  the  thermometer  ;  there  was  the  hush  of  dim 
shaded  rooms ;  the  loosest  and  coolest  of  robes ;  the  long 
siestas  of  the  sweltering  afternoons  to  assist  the  lovely  crea 
tures  in  enduring  the  burden  of  the  weather.  And  for  the 
gentlemen  outside  of  the  house  there  was  the  cool  stillness  of 
mantled  arbors;  the  dense  shadow  of  the  park,  where  they 
could  lounge  as  they  listed ;  smoke,  sleep,  discuss  the  news 
paper,  augment  their  caloric  over  politics,  evaporating  all  their 
superfluity  of  naughtiness,  leaving  them  the  enchanting  beings 
which  they  proved  themselves  to  be  to  the  ladies  in  the  even 
ing.  This  was  outward  life  at  Bel  Eden ;  the  tragedy  was 
within. 

It  was  in  the  silence  of  my  own  room,  in  the  solitude  of  my 
own  nature,  that  I  listened  to  my  hurt  and  desolate  heart. 
Often,  when  all  were  asleep,  I  would  take  a  light,  steal  to 
Hope's  bed,  and  gaze  upon  her  in  silence.  How  peacefully, 
how  innocently  she  slept,  like  a  child,  in  her  low,  calm  breath 
ing.  In  silence  I  stood  over  her,  and  read  her  fate — how 
different  from  mine!  No  striving  with  want,  no  struggle 
with  pain,  no  insatiate  yearning,  no  inward  dying.  Her  life 
would  be  one  calm  lyric,  without  a  dissonant  note ;  its 
rhythm  would  flow  all  melody  to  the  end.  The  one  who 
had  won  her  earliest  love,  he  who  could  fill  the  entire  mea- 


368  Victoire. 

sure  of  her  needs,  with  gentlest  hand  would  lead  her  along 
sheltered  paths  to  her  journey's  end.  The  ethereal  maiden 
would  ripen  into  a  harmonious  household  woman,  more  spiri 
tually  beautiful  than  the  maiden  had  ever  been.  Young 
children  would  cling  around  the  fair  neck,  "keeping  her 
low  and  wise."  In  the  joy  of  her  home  she  would  find 
the  sweetest  inspiration  which  can  be  given  a  woman's  life. 
There  the  graces  would  hover ;  there  Faith  and  Love  be  the 
Lares  to  guard  its  altars.  And  how  melodious  would  be  her 
footfall,  how  beautiful  her  ministrations  beside  the  inner  shrine 
of  home ! 

Sorrow  and  death  would  come- at  last,  but  not  fiercely  to 
one  who  seemed  always  to  be  sheltered  so  near  the  bosom  of 
God,  _  When  the  last  call  would  be  heard,  and  the  life-song 
closed,  the  dear  head  would  only  nestle  a  little  closer  to  the 
Infinite  Heart,  and  God  would  take  her.  Only  once,  when 
I  thought  of  him,  of  what  he  had  been,  might  have  been, 
to  me,  I  grew  suddenly  fierce.  If  I  were  free,  and  then  she 
had  come  between  us,  then  had  robbed  me,  would  I  have 
saved  her  ?  Could  I  ?  I  asked.  I  shuddered,  I  turned  away. 
I  said  "yes."  Had  she  robbed  me  of  all  that  life  had  bestowed 
dear  to  my  soul,  still  I  should  have  said  "  yes.''  Had  she  been 
less  lovely,  I  could  have  ceased  to  love  her ;  I  could  never 
have  harmed  her.  Hope  smiled  in  her  sleep  as  if  she  saw  the 
angels. 

Moncrieffe  was  not  an  established  guest  at  Bel  Eden,  yet 
he  often  drove  over  with  Henri.  I  knew  that  he  did  not 
come  to  taunt  me — that  he  did  not  come  in  triumph  to  prove 
that,  after  all,  I  was  weak  and  that  he  was  strong ;  yet  his 
coming  did  prove  all  this.  Still  I  inwardly  exclaimed — Why 
must  it  be  here?  Why  in  this  very  room  where  we  first  met, 
must  I  behold  the  dearest  revelations  of  life  made  to  another  ? 
Hope  had  never  seemed  to  hold  in  reserve  from  me  a  single 
thought  or  feeling;  everything  had  flowed  from  her  heart 
to  mine  as  to  another  self.  This  rendered  her  reserve  in 
speaking  of  Moncrieffe  more  remarkable ;  his  name  rarely 
passed  her  lips.  I  did  not  wonder  at  this,  for  I  was  not 
at  all  certain  that  there  was  not  something  in  my  manner 
which  forbade  it.  I,  too,  avoided  his  name;  and  I  fancied 
that  she  had  a  vague  intuition  that  in  some  way  to  me  his 
name  was  connected  with  painful  associations.  I  remembered 
my  impression  when  I  first  saw  them  together,  that  their 
manner  was  that  of  persons  who  had  met  before.  I  resolved 
to  know,  and  to  have  the  perfect  confidence  established  be- 


Jealousy — Conquest.  369 

tween  us  regarding  him,  which  existed  respecting  everything 
else.  Thus,  at  last,  when  a  day  of  freedom  came,  when  the 
guests  had  all  departed,  and  Hope  and  I  sat  alone  under  the 
trees  one  afternoon  late  in  the  summer,  I  asked,  without 
preliminaries : 

"  Hope,  did  you  ever  meet  Mr.  Moncrieffe  before  Henri 
introduced  him  that  evening  at  Madame 's  party?" 

"  Yes,  once  before.     I  saw  him  first  in  Paris." 

"  How  did  that  happen  ?  I  thought  it  impossible  for  a 
young  lady  to  form  any  gentleman's  acquaintance  in  that 
pensionnat.^ 

"I  did  not  form  his  acquaintance,  Victoire.  I  only  saw 
him  when  he  delivered  an  oration  at  one  of  the  anniversaries." 

"  And  you  remembered  him  ?" 

"  How  could  I  forget  him  ?" 

"  Why  did  he  make  so  deep  an  impression  ?" 

"  Would  not  his  face,  and  bearing,  and  voice,  impress  any 
one?  Besides,  the  moment  he  rose  on  the  rostrum  I  thought 
of  you." 

"  He  does  not  look  like  me." 

"  No ;  but  the  thought  instantly  came  into  my  mind  that 
he  was  one  whom  you  would  very  much  admire.'' 

"  Did  I  ever  describe  to  you  one  whom  I  should  very  much 
admire  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  why  should  you  imagine  that  you  knew  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  why ;  perhaps  it  was  because  I  admired  him 
myself  more  than  any  man  whom  I  had  ever  seen." 

"  Did  he  remark  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"  He  has  told  me  that  he  recognised  me  immediately  as  the 
original  of  your  Hebe." 

"  Then  he  has  told  you  that  he  knew  me  before  his  depar 
ture  for  Europe.  Did  he  tell  you  where  we  first  met  ?  Plow 
we  became  acquainted  ?" 

"  No ;  he  only  told  me  that  he  sought  your  acquaintance 
through  your  Niobe;  that  you  had  exerted  a  deeper  influence 
upon  his  life  than  any  other  person  whom  he  had  ever  known ; 
that  everything  which  you  had  ever  loved  or  cherished  was 
dear  to  him." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  We  both  looked  afar  off  into 
the  dreamy  depth  of  the  fountain.  When  I  thought  that  I 
could  command  my  voice,  I  asked  : 

"  Hope,  when  did  he  tell  you  all  this  ?" 

"  The  other  evening  at  the  sailing  party,  when  you  asked 

16* 


37° 


Victoire. 


him  to  row  me  in  my  new  skiff.  Don't  you  remember,  the 
river  was  like  glass,  8O  <luiet  ?  I  could  scarcely  see  the  boat 
move,  it  floated  so  softly  ;  then  he  told  me." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  that  he  loved  you  ?" 

"  No  ;  henfever  told  me  that  he  loved  me." 

"  Yet  you  feel  that  he  does,  and  I  feel  it.  He  will  tell  you 
this  soon,  and  when  he  tells  you,  the  story  will  be  very  sweet 
to  hear,  will  it  not,  Hope  ?" 

"Yes,  Victoire,  it  would  sound  sweeter  than  anything  I 
ever  heard  ;  you  know  it  would.  I  never  dreamed  that  such 
a  man  could  ever  love  me ;  I  dare  not  believe  it  now.  No 
one  else  could  ever  love  me  who  would  seem  to  me  to  be  his 
equal.  I  could  never  forget  him  ;  I  fear  that  I  should  never 
cease  to  regret  him." 

"  You  will  never  be  called  upon  to  forget  him  or  to  regret 
him.  "When  he  offers  you  his  love,  accept  it,  and  lavish  yours 
upon  him  without  stint.  He  will  make  you  very  happy, 
Hope ;  and  you — you  will  make  life  dear  to  him.  If  com 
pany  comes,  do  not  call  me,"  I  added,  rising ;  "  I  shall  not 
come  down  until  Henri  returns.  You  will  not  be  lonely, 
Hope  ?" 

"  O  no,"  she  said,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  kissing  her  hand 
after  me.  Why  did  I  ask  that  question,  when  I  saw  that  her 
own  thought  was  richer  company  than  any  living  presence, 
save  that  of  one,  could  possibly  be  ? 

In  contrast  with  the  hilarity  which  had  so  lately  filled  it, 
the  hush  which  now  pervaded  the  house  seemed  almost 
stifling.  Morna  was  in  her  room;  Azalie  was  asleep.  For 
the  last  two  months  her  brain  had  run  wild  inspecting  and 
studying  costumes,  and  now  the  reaction  was  so  great  the 
poor  child  did  nothing  but  sleep  from  pure  exhaustion,  and 
an  unwonted  lull  in  the  household  atmosphere  was  the  result 
of  these  slumbers.  Save  the  trills  of  the  canaries  and  the 
subdued  murmur  of  voices  in  the  distant  kitchen,  no  sound 
greeted  my  ear  as  I  passed  through  the  hall  and  stole  up  to 
my  studio. 

I  had  done  nothing  in  it  for  many  weeks ;  the  blinds  were 
shut ;  the  windows  closely  draped  ;  it  was  dim  and  silent. 
I  went  in  and  knelt  down.  There  are  moments  when  the 
great  God  comes  down  to  us ;  when  the  Omniscient,  All-dis 
cerning  soul,  entering  our  inmost  heart,  searches  us  through 
and  through.  The  film  of  self-love  falls  from  our  eyes ;  the 
armor  of  selfishness  drops  from  our  heart ;  desire,  motive, 
action,  stand  bare,  utterly  revealed.  We  see  ourselves,  not 


Jealousy — Conquest.  371 

as  we  love  to  seem,  not  as  we  love  to  make  ourselves  and 
others  believe,  but  as  we  are,  as  we  shall  kiiow  ourselves  at 
death  and  at  the  judgment.  We  can  reject  creeds,  the 
dogmas  of  men,  the  pomp  and  paraphernalia  of  ghostly  forms; 
but  we  cannot  reject  God,  we  cannot  doubt  Him,  nor  deny 
Him,  nor  turn  from  Him,  when  thus  He  asserts  Himself  within 
our  innate  secret  consciousness.  The  blindness  of  self-love 
again  may  gather ;  again  we  may  grow  metallic,  sordid, 
selfish,  weak,  yet  we  shall  ever  be  better,  purer,  for  having 
wrestled  this  hour  with  God.  We  may  be  conscious  of  sin, 
with  a  desire  and  even  a  purpose  to  relinquish  it,  yet  have 
no  adequate  realization  of  its  nature  or  of  its  consequences 
upon  ourselves  and  others.  When  the  primal  spirit  illuminates 
us  so  that  we  both  utterly  see,  and  feel,  and  repent,  then  we 
not  only  desire,  we  do  renounce  sin.  Great  epochs  mark 
the  inner  as  well  as  the  outer  life.  The  epoch  in  our  outward 
career  Settles  our  destiny  among  men;  the  epochs  of  the  soul 
decide  its  indestructible  character,  its  eternal  fate.  The  mo 
ment  which  saw  me  reject  the  love  of  Moncrieffe  decided  my 
human  lot ;  it  saved  my  name  from  the  ranks  of  the  fallen  ;  it 
perpetuated  to  me  the  gifts  and  amenities  of  a  favored  fortune; 
it  did  not  eradicate  any  blot  which  temptation  might  have 
made  upon  my  moral  nature,  it  did  not  absolve  my  soul  be 
fore  God.  But  this  moment  was  to  decide  whether,  with 
spirit  stained  or  washed  white,  I  was  to  live  and  die.  It 
would  set  the  final  stamp  upon  my  inward  character  by  which 
I  should  be  recognised  and  judged  by  God  and  angels,  if  not 
by  men.  I  had  been  self-deceived  ;  not  wilfully,  surely  ;  yet, 
no  less  entirely  because  I  did  not  know  it.  An  eternity  of 
life  seemed  curdled  in  these  moments  in  which  I  scanned  my 
naked  soul. 

That  was  not  renunciation  which  I  called  renunciation  two 
years  before ;  but  the  hour  had  come  now  ;  and  now  as  I  tore 
the  living  idol  from  my  living  heart,  every  fibre  warm  and 
bleeding  with  the  very  life-blood  of  my  humanity,  I  knew 
and  felt  for  the  first  time  how  entirely  it  had  become  inter 
woven  with  all  the  tissues  of  my  being. 

Renounced  it !  My  conscience  renounced  it  two  years 
before  ;  my  heart  never.  Had  I  ever  clung  to  it  with  such 
deathless,  jealous,  despairing  tenacity  as  in  the  weeks  just 
gone  ?  Why  had  not  the  spirit  of  God  searched  me  thus 
before  ?  Why  had  I  never  felt  as  I  felt  now — how  very,  very 
weak  and  sinning  I  was  ?  Heart  and  will  surrendered ;  the 
enshrined  idol  dropped  from  my  relaxing  grasp  j  dropped  so 


372 


Victoire. 


far  away  from  me  that  I  could  never  reach  it  any  more.  My 
soul  was  being  winnowed  by  a  mysterious  and  awful  force, 
which  with  one  resistless  sweep  carried  with  it  all  that  I  had 
cherished  most. 

"  This  moment  cannot  change  all  my  nature ;  it  cannot 
annihilate  the  associations  of  years.  To-morrow,  when  I  look 
on  the  living  face,  shall  I  find  that  it  has  lost  all  its  power  ? 
To-morrow  shall  I  not  find  myself  just  as  weak  as  I  have  been 
to-day  ?"  faltered  doubt.  "  To-morrow !  You  have  no 
business  with  to-morrow.  It  is  not  yours.  Be  the  con 
queror  of  now.  Make  the  present  pure,  and  all  the  future  will 
be  peaceful,"  answered  the  deeper  voice,  as  I  arose,  wonder 
ing  at  the  great  calm  that  had  come  over  me. 

The  deluge  of  passion  had  rolled  back.  "The  earth  was 
green  again.  I  was  in  a  new  world,  and  the  new  world  was 
the  sepulchre  of  the  old." 

I  went  down  into  Henri's  study.  I  felt  a  wonderful  sense 
of  kinship  for  this  room.  I  knew  that  none  but  wise  and 
pure  thoughts  had  ever  entered  into  it.  Next  to  human 
faces  and  hearts,  what  can  so  grow  into  our  affections  as 
books  ?  Many  of  these  I  could  not  understand,  but  many 
more  were  my  daily  intimate  companions,  while  the  marble 
faces  looking  down  from  the  alcoves'  now  seemed  the  kindest 
of  silent  friends.  I  was  in  search  of  an  antique  book  whose 
words  had  often  come  home  to  my  heart  with  a  strange, 
sympathetic  truthfulness.  I  found  it,  and  sitting  down  with 
in  the  drapery  of  the  open  window,  read  : 

"  Many,  if  not  most  friendships,  be  like  a  glove,  that,  how 
ever  well  fitting  at  first,  doth  by  constant  use  wax  loose  and 
ungainly,  if  it  doth  not  quite  wear  out.  There  be  friendships 
which  a  man  groweth  out  of  naturally  and  blamelessly,  even  as 
out  of  his  child-clothes ;  the  which,  though  no  longer  suit 
able  to  his  needs,  he  keepeth  religiously,  unforgotten  and 
undestroyed,  and  often  visiteth  with  a  kindly  tenderness, 
though  he  knoweth  they  can  cover  and  warm  him  no  more. 

"  But  deceive  not  thyself,  saying  that  because  a  thing  is 
not,  it  never  was.  Respect  thyself,  thy  old  self,  as  well  as 
thy  new.  Be  faithful  to  thyself  and  to  all  that  ever  was 
thine.  Thy  friend  is  always  thy  friend.  Not  to  have  or  to 
hold  to  love,  or  to  rejoice  in,  but  to  remember. 

"  And  if  it  befall  thee,  as  it  befalleth  most,  that  in  course 
of  time  nothing  will  remain  to  thee  except  to  remember,  be 
not  afraid  1  Hold  fast  that  which  was  thine ;  it  is  thine  for 


Jealousy — Conquest.  373 

ever.  Deny  it  not,  despise  it  not ;  respect  its  secrets ;  be 
silent  over  its  wrongs.  And  so  kept,  it  shall  never  be  like  a 
dead  thing  in  thy  heart,  corrupting  and  breathing  corruption 
there  as  dead  things  do.  Bury  it  and  go  thy  way.  It  may 
chance  that  some  day  long  hence  thou  shalt  come  suddenly 
upon  the  grave  of  it,  and  behold !  it  is  dewy  green." 

Why  had  Moncrieffe  crossed  my  path?  Why  had  each 
nature  responded  perfectly  to  the  other?  Why  had  we 
been  friends — more  than  friends  ?  Not  to  have  or  to  hold,  to 
love  or  to  rejoice  in  ;  but  to  remember,  to  be  for  ever  nobler 
and  purer  for  that  memory.  Could  either  well  spare  this 
experience  out  of  their  existence  ?  Was  it  not  indispensable 
to  our  discipline,  growth,  final  development?  This  larger 
capacity  to  love  all  things,  this  broader  charity,  this  deeper 
insight  into  my  own  heart  and  the  hearts  of  others,  this 
profounder  yearning  for  innate  purity,  this  victory  over  my 
self,  all  this  love,  at  last  had  brought  me — did  they  not  make 
the  wealth  of  my  life  ?  Not  one  could  I  spare  from  my 
nature.  When  at  last  we  should  yield  up  our  souls,  redeemed 
and  perfected,  to  the  God  and  Father  of  our  spirits,  we 
could  bless  him  for  this  mortal  love  which  He  had  made  a 
link  of  light  to  draw  us  upwards  nearer  to  Himself;  whereas 
our  own  hands  might  have  forged  it  into  a  chain  to  drag  us 
down  to  remorse  and  death. 

Amid  these  thoughts  an  infinite  tenderness  swept  over  me 
as  I  gazed  around  the  room  and  thought  of  its  owner.  I 
knew  that  the  time  had  come  when  there  could  be  no  longer 
any  reserve  between  me  and  my  truest  friend,  the  husband 
of  my  heart.  "  To-night,"  I  murmured,  "  I  will  tell  him  all." 

I  do  not  know  why  I  thought  of  my  old  haunt,  the  gnarled 
bridge  crowning  the  ravine,  but  I  did.  It  would  be  a  good 
place  to  test  my  new  emotions,  I  thought.  Returning  my 
book  to  its  place,  I  went  slowly  down  to  it,  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  foliage  which  hung  dense  about  it.  Here  I 
had  leaned  and  lingered  hundreds  of  times ;  here  I  had 
waited  in  dim  expectation  that  October  day  when  Mon 
crieffe  came  ;  here,  too,  he  had  loitered  and  dreamed  in  the 
leisure  of  a  past  existence ;  it  was  all  past ;  all  came  to  me 
now  like  memories  from  a  distant  world,  that  long  life  of 
love  for  him !  It  was  not  a  present  consciousness,  not  a  living 
desire ;  it  was  a  memory.  I  thought  of  him  already  as  the 
husband  of  Hope.  The  thought  did  not  make  me  wretched. 

"  Oh,  dear !" 


374 


Victoire. 


I  started  as  this  exclamation  broke  in  upon  my  thought.  I 
had  heard  it  too  many  times,  under  too  many  different  circum 
stances,  not  to  know  perfectly  well  from  whom  it  proceeded.  I 
was  only  surprised  that  I  had  not  been  conscious  before  of 
the  near  proximity  of  a  human  presence. 

"  Oh,  dear !» 

My  eye  followed  the  direction  of  the  voice,  and  there  below 
me,  just  above  the  brook,  beneath  a  clump  of  alder  bushes, 
his  face  buried  in  the  ferns  and  mosses  of  the  bank  as  I 
remembered  having  seen  it  buried  in  the  bosom  of  a  lounge- 
cushion,  lay  George  Washington  Peacock,  no  longer  an  over 
grown  boy  of  twelve,  but  a  well-formed  youth  of  eighteen. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  thought  when  I  was  up  there  that  I'd  just 
as  lief  drown  myself  as  not.  And  I  would  if  my  dead  body 
could  in  any  way  be  a  blessing  to  her.  But  she'd  think  it 
was  a  pretty  end  of  all  her  teachings  to  have  them  drag  me 
out  of  the  water  dead  as  a  stun'.  It  wouldn't  mend  matters. 
She  couldn't  respect  me,  and  she  wouldn't  love  me  any  more, 
because  I  had  made  a  goose  of  myself  by  taking  affairs  out 
of  the  Lord  Almighty's  hands.  But  I  came  down  here  on 
purpose  to  drown  myself;  and  now  it  makes  a  fellow  feel  kind 
of  queer  to  think  he  can't.  I  mean  that  he  don't  want  to.  I  be 
lieve  after  all  I'm  afraid ;  not  of  the  water,  but  of  what's  beyond 
it.  A  pretty  end  'twould  be,  after  all  of  her  tryings  to  make  me 
good,  for  me  to  go  and  kill  myself.  The  devil's  got  me,  or  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  of  it. 

"  O  Lord !"  here  he  raised  himself  up  upon  his  elbows 
and  began  to  pray. 

"O  Lord!  I  know  that  You  know  best  what  is  best  for 
me.  I'm  only  sorry  when  I  know  that  I  don't  know  what  is 
best  for  me ;  that  I  ain't  any  better  contented  with  what's 
given  me.  O  Lord!  I'm  sure  of  one  thing — that  nothing  so 
homely  as  I  am  was  ever  made  to  go  with  anything  so  beau 
tiful  as  Miss  Hope.  It  would  be  like  tying  a  great  sprawling 
mud-turtle  to  a  white  flower.  Only,  Lord,  I  wish  You  had 
made  me  handsomer.  I  can't  see  why  you  didn't.  I  should 
have  had  a  better  disposition  if  I  had  been  made  better  look 
ing.  I  should  have  swore  less.  I  shouldn't  have  struck  the 
children  more  than  half  as  many  times,  for  then  they  couldn't 
have  said :  *  George  Washington  has  got  a  berry  on  the  end 
of  his  nose.'  I  know  for  certain  that  it  makes  a  chap  feel 
ugly  to  know  that  he  looks  ugly.  But  O  Lord,  I  know  that 
You  knew  best.  Of  course,  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  be 
good  if  there  wasn't  anything  to  make  one  ugly.  O  Lord, 


A  Weddi'ng  in  the  Last  Chapter.         375* 

You  know  I  try  hard  enough,  with  mighty  slim  results. 
Help  me  to  give  up  wanting  to  look  for  ever  at  Miss  Hope. 
The  more  I  look  the  more  I  want  to.  I  know  well  enough  I 
wasn?t  made  for  Miss  Hope;  only,  Lord,  I  wish  You  had 
made  me  for  her.  O  Lord,  why  didn't  You  ?  But  You 
know  best.  I  know  that  You  have  given  me  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  ever  deserved.  I  am  thankful,  O  Lord,  that 
through  her+You  have  taught  me  what  beauty,  and  good 
ness,  and  everything  lovely  is.  From  the  first  moment 
I  saw  her  I  knew  that  there  was  something  higher  in  life 
than  I  had  ever  thought  of,  and  ever  since  I've  been  try 
ing  to  reach  it,  and  mighty  hard  work  it  is.  O  Lord,  I 
am  thankful  for  the  kind  instructions,  the  happy  home,  the 
blessed  friends  Thou  hast  given  me.  JVlay  I  never  disgrace 
them  nor  prove  myself  unworthy  of  them,  as  I  should  if  I  had 
gone  and  drowned  myself  just  because  I  can't  see  Miss  Hope 
as  often  as  I  want,  and  because  she  can't  never  think  any 
more  of  me  than  she  does  now.  O  Lord,  help  me  to  feel  that 
You  put  me  in  this  world  to  be  a  good  and  useful  man,  not  to 
have  everything  my  own  way.  Help  me  to  act  as  if  I  felt  it. 
Help  me  to  be  good,  because  I  ought  to  be  good,  because  it 
is  lovely  to  be  good,  and  not  just  because  Miss  Hope  desires 
it.  Help  me  to  stop  living  just  on  the  sight  of  her  face  ;  it's 
mighty  poor  living  when  I  can't  get  the  sight  any  oftener. 
Help  me  to  give  up  Miss  Hope  in  my  heart.  I  shall  be  a 
better  man  just  because  she  is  in  the  world  if  I  ain't  nothing 
to  her  but  a  poor  ugly  boy  that  she  is  sorry  for.  The  dearest 
idol  I  have  known,  help  me  to  tear  it  from  its  throne.  O 
dear !" 

Perhaps  I  should  have  laughed  at  the  sight  of  George 
Washington  rolling  and  groaning  amid  the  ferns,  if  I  had  not 
felt  more  like  crying.  Just  then  I  heard  the  sound  of  carriage- 
wheels  in  the  avenue,  and  a  moment  after,  Hope's  light  laugh 
and  silvery  voice  blending  with  more  sonorous  tones  the 
summer  wind  brought  me  through  the  trees.  I  knew  that 
Henri  had  come,  and  so  went  back  to  the  house. 


A   WEDDING   IN   THE   LAST    CHAPTER. 

As  I  emerged  from  the  trees  Henri  saw  me,  and  came 
down  the  path  to  meet  me.  Hope  was  gathering  flowers  to 
garnish  the  tea-table,  whose  snowy  damask  gleamed  above 


37^ 


Victoire. 


the  green  grass  of  the  shaded  lawn.  Moncrieffe,  leaning 
against  the  vines  of  the  portico,  seemed  to  be  intently  watch 
ing  her.  It  was  a  strange  tea  which  came  afterwards.  The 
birds  sang  in  the  trees,  as  they  did  every  evening,  their  low, 
lullaby  music;  the  flowers  and  fountains,  the  river,  the  blue 
palisades  beyond,  had  not  changed  ;  the  world  around  us  was 
precisely  the  same,  yet  it  seemed  different,  simply  because  I 
looked  on  it  and  on  the  five  human  beings  who  sat  around  the 
table  with  different  eyes,  with  a  different  heart. 

Conversation  at  jhis  table  was  usually  a  most  easy  and 
pleasant  thing,  composed  of  elements  as  various  as  the  five 
widely  differing  natures  which  contributed  to  it.  When  the 
ladies  gave  them  opportunity,  which  was  by  no  means  always, 
the  gentlemen  grew  profound  over  public  measures  and  affairs 
of  state ;  or  they  grew  fervid  over  politics,  for  they  were  of 
opposite  parties  ;  yet,  strange  to  say,  their  differences  seemed 
only  to  augment  their  friendship.  But'  the  merry  chit-chat 
and  the  earnest  discussions  were  both  wanting  to-night.  A 
rare  silence  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  all.  Each  one  appeared 
to  be  thinking  of  something  which  could  not  be  spoken, 
and  yet  a  perfect  sympathy  seemed  to  exist  even  in  this 
silence. 

Morna  was  a  little  paler  and  a  little  more  silent  than  usual, 
but  there  was  no  unrest  in  her  manner.  Moncrieffe's  face 
seemed  full  of  an  expression  of  relief — the  light  in  his  dark, 
radiating  eyes  seemed  gratitude;  not  joy  but  thankfulness. 
Henri's  clear  gaze  sought  my  face  continually  ;  it  was  filled 
with  a  new  meaning,  made  of  wonder,  love,  pain.  Hope's 
sensitive  heart  seemed  to  vibrate  to  all  our  moods,  and  she 
glided  into  our  silence  as  intuitively  as  if  she,  too,  had  a 
burden  on  her  heart — which  she  had,  but  it  was  a  very  pleasant 
one. 

After  tea  we  had  music.  Hope  played  and  sang  till 
the  twilight  came.  Then  we  wandered  into  the  beau 
tiful  outer  world  again — all  but  Morna,  who  lingered,  her 
fingers  rippling  over  the  keys  of  the  piano,  her  rich  voice 
quivering  with  the  prelude  of  a  strain  into  which  the  great, 
loving  soul  soared  impatient  to  overflow.  Music  had  become 
a  more  soothing  companion  to  her  than  any  living  presence 
could  be.  We  left  her  with  her  friend,  as  in  the  world  the 
great,  the  loving,  yet  unmated  in  soul,  are  often  left  utterly 
devoid  of  companionship  save  that  which  their  own  spirit 
can  make. 

Henri  and  I  wandered  out  to  one  of  the  garden  seats,  and 


A  Wedding  in  the  Last  Chapter.          377 

not  until  after  we  were  seated  did  I  notice  that  it  was  the 
one  on  which  we  sat  on  that  June  morning  when  I  said :  "  I 
will  marry  you."  Moncrieffe  and  Hope  slowly  wandered 
down  the  wooded  path  which  led  to  the  ravine,  the  brook, 
tne  bridge.  I  watched  the  sheen  of  her  white  robes  floating 
in  and  out  through  the  interlacing  foliage,  till  at  last  they 
were  lost  down  the  descending  knoll.  They  were  wandering 
down  to  the  little  bow-braided,  leaf-draped  bridge,  beneatli 
which  that  very  afternoon  George  Washington  had  struggled 
with  himself,  his  love  ;  the  bridge  whose  murmurous  leaves 
and  musical  waters  were  instinct  with  a  thousand  memories. 
There,  what  vagaries  had  stirred  my  heart,  what  visions  had 
been  revealed  to  me,  but  never  this — that  here  the  stranger 
of  Les  Delices  would  win  his  bride,  and  that  bride  would 
be  Hope  Avondale. 

"  There  will  be  a  wedding  at  Bel  Eden  before  many  months, 
if  you  are  willing,"  said  Henri ;  and  as  I  looked  up  I  saw 
that  he,  too,  had  been  gazing  after  them  as  intently  as  I  till 
they  disappeared.  "  I  have  given  my  consent.  Will  you 
yours?"  he  added,  taking  my  hand  most  gently,  yet  fixing 
upon  me  a  penetrating  gaze  which  pierced  me  through.  I 
did  not  shrink  from  it.  Truth  was  in  my  heart,  and  it  must 
have  shone  through  my  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  a  wedding  at  Bel  Eden." 

"  Victoire,  I  have  heard  a  strange  story  this  afternoon," 
he  continued,  without  withdrawing  his  hand  or  removing  his 
gaze. 

"  Yes,  Moncrieffe  told  it  to  you." 

"  Yes,  he  told  me.  I  have  heard  that  all  women  have  a 
story — some  heart-tragedy  to  reveal  if  they  choose.  I  begin 
to  think  that  men  have  about  as  many,  at  least  poetic  men  ; 
a  commonplace  fellow  like  me,  of  course,  does  not  weave 
much  romance  out  of  the  raw  material  of  life.  Moncrieffe's 
story  was  a  romantic  one,  but  a  very  hard  one  for  me  to  listen 
to,  Victoire.  He  has  done  me  a  wrong  which  few  men  can 
forgive — which  I  would  not  forgive  any  man  but  him,"  and  as 
Henri  uttered  these  words  I  saw  that  his  deep  nature  was 
wounded  to  the  very  core.  "  Jonathan  never  loved  David 
more  truly  than  I  loved  him.  His  nature  commands  the 
affection  of  men  no  less  than  of  women.  You  have  loved 
him,  Victoire  ?" 

"  Yes,  Henri,  I  have  loved  him.  I  loved  him  first.  The 
great  temptation  of  my  life  came  to  me  through  him.  Yet  I 
have  never  seen  tine  moment  in  which  I  could  consciously 


378  Victoire. 

wrong  you  for  his  sake.  If  I  have  sinned  in  loving  him,  for 
give  me.  It  is  past." 

"Are  you  sure,  Victoire;  are  you  sure  that  it  is  past?"  he 
asked,  vehemently.  "  If  not,  of  all  men  I  am  the  most  wretch 
ed.  With  all  my  wise  conclusions  have  I  been  blind,  self- 
deceived,  for  all  these  years  ?  Viutoire  ;  are  you  sure  that  it 
is  past?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure.  I  desire  to  find  rest  only  in  the  heart 
of  my  husband.  You  know  how  tenaciously  my  heart  clings 
to  everything  which  it  seizes.  But  when  at  last  it  lets  go  an 
object,  it  lets  it  go.  It  tears  it  up  by  the  roots — not  a  fibre  re 
mains,  and  the  idol  drops  so  far  away,  it  can  never  be  taken  up 
again.  Can  you  forgive  me,  Henri,  that  I  ever  loved  him  ?" 

"  Forgive  you,  child  !  I  do  not  blame  you  for  the  love ; 
if  I  blame  you,  it  is  that  you  did  not  confide  in  me — that  you 
did  not  tell  me,  your  husband,  your  best  friend." 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Henri ;  I  wanted  to  tell  you  all ;  but 
I  did  not  dare.  I  was  afraid  of  that  quiet  smile,  so  cold  and 
so  lofty ;  I  was  afraid  of  your  pity.  I  knew  that  you  would 
feel  for  me  a  kind  of  godlike  pity,  while  you  gauged  a  weak 
ness  that  you  never  felt,"  I  murmured. 

"When  I  thrust  aside  my  feelings  and  look  at  this  in  the 
light  of  reason,"  he  continued,  "  I  find  that  I  cannot  exonerate 
myself  from  blame.  Ever  since  my  illness  I  have  sometimes 
questioned  my  own  course,  which  I  never  did  before.  Ever 
since  then  I  have  discovered  wants  in  myself,  weaknesses  I 
have  called  them,  which  previously  I  had  never  known.  They 
have  made  me  more  appreciative  of  the  needs  of  others  ;  those 
which  I  once  noticed  from  a  sense  of  duty,  if  I  noticed  them 
at  all,  I  have  learned  to  regard  with  genuine  personal  sym 
pathy.  There  is  something  hard  in  unbroken  physical  health. 
A  vigor  that  has  never  even  been  touched  by  disease  has  no 
adequate  sympathy  to  otter  for  the  sufferings  or  needs  of  the 
weaker  or  more  exquisitely  organized  ;  it  can  theorize,  specu 
late,  estimate,  and  be  even  kind  to  a  degree,  but  it  does  not  feel. 
Suffering — mental,  moral,  physical — is  the  saviour  and  softener 
of  the  human  heart.  Thus  I  have  learned  to  think,  Victoire, 
since  that  long  illness  has  wrought  such  a  change  in  me — in  my 
feelings  more  than  in  my  actions,  for,  with  my  native  love  of 
domination,  I  have  ruled  them  though  I  have  not  killed  them. 
I  remember  that  long  convalescence  as  the  very  happiest 
season  of  my  life.  It  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  in  which  I 
ever  enjoyed  ease,  rest.  To  be  sure  I  had  taken  them  occa 
sionally  before,  because  I  knew  that  I  must:  but  it  was  a  great 


A  Wedding  in  the  Last  Chapter.  379 

bore.  I  was  restless  to  be  doing ;  the  great  force  of  activity 
within  me  seemed  to  impel  me  irresistibly  forth  to  work,  to 
business — duty  I  liked  best  to  call  it.'' 

I  made  no  answer,  and  he  went  on. 

"The  power  of  action,  the  capacity  for  affairs,  which  are 
essential  requisites  of  manhood,  I  drove  beyond  their  healthy 
energy  into  an  excitement,  a  dissipation.  I  never  realized 
this  till,  with  faltering  feet,  weakened  neives,  and  a  softened 
heart,  I  returned  from  the  gates  of  the  grave.  That  coming 
back  to  the  bright  earth,  to  the  summer  flowers,  to  your  dear 
face,  was  the  epoch  of  my  being.  Those  long  hours  of  deli 
cious  leisure,  of  gentle  rides,  and  quiet  walks ;  those  hours  in 
which  you  used  to  read  to  me,  and  sing  for  me  till  I  fell  asleep, 
only  to  hear  your  voice  distil  its  music  through  my  dreams, 
seemed  to  create  a  new  heart  in  me,  soft  and  grateful  as  a  little 
child's — a  hea  t  far  too  Weak,  I  thought,  for  a  strong  man's 
breast,  and  of  course  thought  it  my  duty  to  hide  it  as  far  as 
possible.  In  those  hours  I  first  noticed  a  change  in  your  face. 
When  your  tender  heart  had  exhausted  the  last  possible  atten 
tion,  and  you  had  sunk  upon  the  low  stool  at  my  feet,  your 
white  hands  crossed  and  your  features  in  repose,  I  saw  what  I 
had  never  thought  of  before  my  illness.  A  sadness  looked 
out  from,  your  eyes  which  I  tried  in  vain  to  fathom ;  a  look  of 
weariness  lay  across  the  brow,  which  I  did  not  understand  ;  it 
was  not  the  result  of  physical  exhaustion,  it  was  a  weariness 
of  spirit.  Anxiety  and  watching  alone  had  not  made  it.  What 
had?  Your  face  should  still  be  radiant  as  any  maiden's — it 
should  still  be  girlish  in  its  outline  and  its  bloom.  What  had 
so  soon  transformed  it  into  that  of  a  woman,  with  a  look  of 
suffering  on  the  brow  and  the  history  of  long  years  gazing 
from  the  mournful  eyes  ?  Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  began  to 
question  myself.  What  had  I  to  do,  directly  or  indirectly, 
with  this  change  ?  Had  I  not  fulfilled  all  my  promises  ?  Had 
I  not  covered  you  with  gifts?  What  other  wife  did  I  knoMr 
so  free  and  independent,  so  honored,  so  beloved  ?  I  remem 
bered  that  in  the  past,  after  a  great  press  of  occupation  had 
kept  me  constantly  absorbed  for  many  weeks,  the  thought 
would  suggest  itself  that  perhaps  I  had  unwittingly  appeared 
careless  or  neglectful,  that  I  condemned  you  too  entirely  to 
loneliness  or  the  society  of  strangers.  But  I  recollected  also 
that  you  never  complained  of  neglect  or  loneliness.  Did  you 
not  have  art,  letters,  friends,  home,  a  rich  and  varied  life  ? 
The  thought  of  ennui,  loneliness,  in  you  seemed  absurd.  Had 
you  not  told  me  once  that  you  wished  to  devote  a  portion  of 


380 


Victoire. 


your  best  years  to  art  ?  Just  as  if  I  did  not  understand  your 
nature  too  well,  even  then,  before  you  knew  anything  about 
yourself,  to  take  you  at  your  word.  '  I  am  busy.  Let  her 
learn  something  of  life,  the  world ;  there  will  be  time  enough 
for  love  afterwards,'  was  ever  my  final  conclusion. 

"  But  now  there  was  something  in  the  white  face,  and  soft, 
womanly  eyes  which  looked  up  to  me,  which  contradicted  all 
my  wise  theories  of  duty  and  happiness,  and  there  was  a  feel 
ing  in  my  heart  as  well  as  a  voice  in  my  head  which  assured 
me  that  I  had  been  mistaken.  I  resolved  that  as  soon  as  I 
could  arrange  business  matters  I  would  take  more  leisure  for 
my  home,  and  we  would  renew  the  sweet,  uninterrupted  com 
munion  of  the  hours  of  convalescence.  But  you  know  how  it 
was — I  found  a  thousand  matters  to  attend  to  which  I  never 
thought  of,  and  the  leisure  has  never  come.  Yet  all  the  while 
my  heart  has  kept  up  a  rebellion  with  my  head,  which  it  never 
thought  of  doing  before. 

"  God  knows  that  I  have  ever  meant  only  to  bless  you,  Vic 
toire.  Yet  I  have  been  selfish.  Because  I  have  found  in  your 
nature  all  that  mine  demanded,  because  you  have  given  me  all 
the  tenderness  my  soul  needed,  and  I  knew  that  there  was  a 
world  more  in  reserve  on  which  I  could  make  draughts  at  any 
time,  I  have  been  contented,  and  have  not  inquired  whether  I 
returned  to  your  heart  an  equivalent.  Strange  it  was  that  the 
pale,  changed  face  first  prompted  the  inquiry.  But  you  know 
that  most  natures  are  miserably  deficient  in  something.  Rarely 
we  find  a  perfectly  harmonious  being.  There  is  always  some 
sharp  jutting  angle,  some  hateful  excrescence,  or  some  pitiable 
lack.  My  intellect  has  been  cultivated  at  the  expense  of  my 
heart.  My  reasoning  faculties  have  absorbed  my  emotional, 
leaving  them  neither  room  nor  warmth  to  grow.  But,  Vic 
toire,  I  bave  a  heart,  and  it  is  capable  of  great  expansion,  and 
you  have  not  been  filling  it  with  sunshine  and  dew  all  these 
years  for  nothing.  I  blame  myself  that  I  Lft  you  to  feel  the 
need  of  a  tenderness  which  another  was  ready  to  bestow. 
Men  place  a  flower  on  their  heart,  and  after  they  have  drained 
it  of  its  first  fresh  sweetness  they  forget  it.  Absorbed  with 
their  worldly  projects  or  great  ambitions,  they  forget  that 
without  light  or  dew  that  flower  will  die.  The  flower  drops 
away  at  last  from  the  dry  dust  of  the  heart  which  has 
ceased  to  nourish  it.  A  stranger  who  has  long  watched,  per 
haps  coveted  that  flower,  seeing  it  droop  and'fade,  begins  to 
water  it,  to  give  it  a  little  of  the  light  and  air  which  it  needs. 
The  flower  begins  to  revive  and  grow  beautiful  again  under 


A  Wedding  in  the  Last  Chapter.          381 

the  hand  which  nourishes  it.  The  stranger  has  no  right  to 
cherish  this  flower,  for  it  is  not  his  ;  but  if  he  loves  it  he  can 
not  be  wholly  indifferent  to  its  needs.  Of  course  it  is  very 
weak  in  that  flower  to  need  sunshine  and  dew,  but  only  being 
a  flower  it  grows  beautifully  with  them,  and  is  dwarfed 
without  them.  The  man  who  owns  the  blossom  may  some 
day  wake  up  to  find  that  he  has  lost  it;  but  it  is  his  own  fault, 
he  should  have  taken  better  care  of  it.  The  man  who  unlaw 
fully  possessed  himself  of  that  flower  is  not  a  good  man  of 
course;  neither  is  the  man  who  professed  to  love,  who  was 
bound  to  cherish  it,  yet  did  not. 

"  If  you  had  forsaken  me,  Victoire,  I  should  have  condemned 
you  bitterly,  but  not  more  bitterly  than  I  should  have  con 
demned  myself.  Your  heart  turned  involuntarily  towards 
Moncrieffe,  not  only  because  he  was  born  to  inspire  love,  but 
there  is  not  a  want  of  your  soul  which  he  does  not  know  and 
feel.  Can  I  forget  that  my  one  .chosen  friend  would  have 
robbed  me  if  he  could  of  the  treasure  of  my  life  ?  If  he  saw 
that  I  did  not  cherish  it  as  tenderly  as  I  might,  he  should  have 
told  me  frankly  and  truthfully  as  he  did  this  afternoon.  Yet 
I  know  that  that  was  too  much  disinterestedness  to  ask  for 
friendship  when  it  stood  in  the  way  of  love. 

"  I  forgive  Moncrieffe  because  he  is  Moncrieffe,  and  because 
I  know  his  inherent  nobleness  ;  and  because  I  know  that  as  far 
as  he  has  sinned,  that  sin  has  brought  to  his  heart  its  own 
punishment.  Never  can  I  forget  his  manliness  in  confessing 
all.  The  sun  had  never  risen  since  that  night,  he  said,  when 
its  light  had  not  brought  to  him  a  consciousness  of  remorse 
for  the  unforgiven  sin  which  rested  on  his  soul.  Hope  is  very 
dear  to  him.  He  finds  rest  and  peace  in  her  pure  young  soul ; 
he  wishes  to  devote  his  life  to  her — believes  that  he  can  make 
her  happy  in  his  love  ;  yet  he  said  if  I  thought  him  unworthy 
of  her,  if  I  could  not  forgive  him  with  all  my  heart,  he  would 
never  utter  to  her  a  word  of  affection  ;  he  would  not  again 
enter  her  presence  ;  but  a  solitary  man  would  go  forth  into  the 
world.  Victoire,  I  told  him  that  I  forgave  him  with  all  my 
heart,  and  I  do.  But  why  has  your  soul  been  sealed  so  long  ? 
Why  have  you  never  revealed  any  of  this  to  me?" 

"  I  knew  that  the  day  would  come  when  Moncrieffe  would 
tell  you  all.  I  have  waited  for  this  day.  Long  ago  I  longed 
to  ask  pardon  for  myself,  but  I  could  not  betray  him,"  I  an 
swered. 

"  After  all,  it  is  as  well  that  you  did  not,"  he  said.  "  No 
words,  nothing  but  experience,  could  teach  me  what  I  now 


382 


Victoire. 


feel  and  know.  My  intellect  has  always  assured  me  that  ten 
derness  in  a  man  was  weakness,  and  yet  I  have  always  known 
that  the  greatest  souls  are  the  most  childlike.  There  WHS  a 
time  when  there  was  no  discord  between  my  heart  and  brain ; 
but  ever  since  ray  sickness  my  heart  has  silently  yet  surely 
waged  war  with  my  head,  and  has  corne  off  victor.  Victoire, 
can  your  great,  tender  heart  rest  satisfied  in  the  love 
which  I  give  you  ?  Never  was  woman  loved  more  entirely 
or  more  tenderly  than  I  love  you  now.  Surely  I  cannot  have 
been  all  wrong.  The  kind  God  must  have  brought  us  toge 
ther  for  good,  for  complete  love  and  happiness  at  last." 

"  Yes,  for  complete  love  and  happiness  at  last,"  I  mur 
mured.  "  On  this  spot  I  promised  to  marry  you  :  here,  five 
years  after,  I  can  say  from  my  heart  I  am  glad  that  I  pro- 
raised.  I  love  you,  my  husband.  I  ask  only  that  you  should 
need  that  love,  and  I  can  live  in  you,  and  for  you  for  ever." 

The  eyes  which  looked  down  upon  mine  were  suffused  with 
tenderness  which  I  had  never  seen  in  them  before.  The  light 
in  them,  always  so  clear,  was  wonderfully  soft  and  deep — the 
outshining  of  that  immortal  love  which  can  fill  the  eyes  of  a 
man  when  he  gazes  on  the  woman  for  whose  sake  he  has  for 
saken  father  and  mother  that  he  may  love  and  cherish  her  to 
life's  end.  Theories  and  disquisitions  were  nothing  now. 
Love  had  come,  full,  perfect,  filling  our  hearts ;  it  needed  no 
analysis.  Close  to  his  heart  he  folded  me — this  husband  of 
five  years,  this  lover  whose  kingly  pride  love  at  last  had 
conquered.  The  Alps  and  glaciers  of  the  head  vanished ; 
instead,  the  dews  of  Hermon  distilled  through  all  that  sum 
mer  valley  of  his  soul,  and  I  entered  in,  to  go  out  no  more  for 
ever. 

Deeper  and  longer  grew  the  shadows  in  the  grass  ;  the 
flowers  slept,  the  birds  grew  still ;  the  fall  and  flow  of  waters 
trickled  through  the  silence ;  softly  the  leaves  turned  their 
lips  to  the  evening  wind ;  all  the  beauty  around  us,  even  the 
celestial  blazonry  of  stars  above,  breathed  but  one  thought  of 
our  wedded  hearts — that  thought  was  happiness. 

"Let  us  return  to  Europe,"  at  last  he  said.  "Let  us  go  to 
Les  Delices,  and  there  begin  truly  to  live ;  there  will  be  time 
enough  after  to  come  back  to  this  land  of  endeavor,  this 
country  of  emulous  and  endless  action." 

Les  Delices!  My  heart  bounded  at  that  name.  All  the 
memories  of  childhood,  all  that  was  best  and  sweetest  in  life, 
came  thronging  back  at  its  mention. 

u  Les  Delices  !"  I  said.     "  Oh,  if  I  had  not  lost  it,  if  it  was 


A  Wedding  in  the  Last  Chapter.          383 

still  my  home,  it  would  be  such  a  joy  to  behold  it ;  but  I  fear 
that  it  would  fill  me  with  sorrow  now  to  see  it  forsaken  and 
neglected,  the  property  of  a  stranger." 

"  You  have  seen  the,  purchaser  of  Les  Delices  many 
times." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  You  see  him  here  now.  I  bought  Les  Delices,  and  for 
you.  I  thought,  even  then,  that  perhaps  the  day  might  come 
when  you  would  gladly  return  to  it  for  a  season.  At  any 
rate,  I  was  not  willing  that  the  ancestral  home  of  Frederick 
should  go  to  strangers.  My  medical  friends  imperatively 
insist  upon  rest  and  change  of  air  for  me  ;  and,  to  confess  the 
truth,  I  do  feel  worn.  The  unrelaxing  tension  of  the  last  six 
years  is  broken,  and  I,  too,  want  rest  for  my  body  as  much  as 
you  want  it  for  your  heart.  Don't  you  want  to  go  to  Italy, 
Victoire,  and  to  Languedoc  ?" 

"  And  never  come  back  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  come  back,  of  course  ;  that  is,  if  you  prefer  Ame 
rica  to  France." 

"  You  are  my  good  angel.  I  bless  you  a  thousand  times 
for  saving  Les  Delices.  You  saved  it  for  a  surprise  some 
day  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  It  is  my  Mecca,  to  which  I  shall  for  ever  make  pilgrim 
ages.  I  shall  kneel  before  Frederick's  grave  as  the  Kaaba 
of  my  heart.  Les  Delices  is  the  home  of  the  past,  the  shrine 
where  I  shall  renew  all  holy  vows  and  consecrations  ;  "but 
America — Bel  Eden — is  the  chosen  home  of  my  life.  Is  it  not 
of  yours,  Henri  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  know  that  I  could  never  live  at  Les  Delices  save 
in  the  way  of  visiting ;  it  is  a  spot  in  which  to  rest  and  to 
gather  strength,  not  to  live  a  life  of  action  in.  Listen  !" 

As  he  spoke  a  tide  of  melody,  sad  yet  triumphant,  flooded 
forth,  tilling  all  the  night,  till  the  very  airs  seemed  to  stand 
still  to  listen,  and  the  boughs  above  us  to  quiver  with  rap 
ture.  It  was  Morna  singing. 

"  Morn  a,"  said  Henri,  tenderly,  "what  a  blessing  she  is; 
in  her  unselfishness,  what  a  silent  teacher  to  us  all !  How 
could  we  spare  her  from  our  life,  Victoire  ?  I  once  hoped 
that  Morna  and  Moncrieffe  would  l<5ve  and  marry  ;  but  I  see 
now  that  both  have  suffered  too  deeply  for  either  to  find 
refreshment  in  the  life  of  the  other.  Moncrieffe  needs  just 
what  he  finds  in  Hope's  spontaneous,  untouched  soul." 

I  grew  sorrowful  as  I  thought  of  Morna,  and  yet,  as  I  lis- 


384  Victoire. 

tened  to  that  voice,  I  could  not  say  that  she  was  not  as  happy 
in  her  renunciation  as  I  in  my  realization. 

An  hour  later,  from  the  balcony  of  my  room  I  saw  Mon- 
crieffe  depart.  Again  I  heard  his  carriage-wheels  roll  down 
the  avenue,  but  not  as  I  had  listened  to  them  once.  I  had 
not  thought  of  rest ;  I  could  not  for  joy— joy  that  at  last  I 
had  emerged  from  the  cloud  and  mystery  of  my  life  into  an 
open  and  benignant  day ;  joy  that  yearning,  strife,  torture 
had  ceased  to  be  my  portion  ;  that,  instead,  I  held  to  my 
lips  the  overflowing  cup  of  peace.  I  waited  for  Hope ;  I 
knew  that  she  would  not  pass  my  door  that  night  without 
entering. 

"  May  I  come  ?"  at  last  I  heard  the  sweet  voice  say,  and  in 
a  moment  more  she  was  in  my  arms.  The  soft  eyes  were  lumi 
nous  with  a  new  lustre,  the  transcendent  face  touched  with 
an  added  loveliness.  She  was  filled  with  the  celestial  rapture 
which  is  kindled  with  the  first  consciousness  of  loving  and  of 
being  loved.  I  knew  that  Moncrieffe  loved  her  as  deeply, 
but  not  as  she  loved.  His  was  a  deeper  and  calmer  joy  ;  he 
had  loved  before. 

"A  most  noble  heart  has  given  you  its  love.  You  are 
worthy  of  the  gift,"  I  said,  low  in  her  ear,  for  she  had  not 
spoken.  Tears  gushed  through  the  long,  silken  lashes,  and 
the  head  nestled  closer  to  my  heart. 

"  No,  I  am  not  worthy.  It  is  too  much  ;  my  life  is  too  full 
of  joy.  How  kind  my  Heavenly  Father  is !  How  much  I 
thank  Him  and  love  Him  for  everything !"  Hope's  was  a 
deeply  religious  spirit ;  to  her  unquestioning  faith  every  gift 
which  she  received  came  from  God,  and  her  first  impulse  was 
to  thank  him  for  it. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  you  will  always  be  happy,  for  you  are  one 
of  Christ's  little  ones ;  your  way  will  always  be  in  green  pas 
tures  and  beside  still  waters,  and  a  most  loving  hand  will  lead 
you  to  the  end." 

I  saw  them  married.  With  my  own  hands  I  dressed  my 
darling  in  her  bridal  robes.  On  a  golden  morning  in  golden 
October,  when  Bel  Eden  was  resplendent  in  scarlet  and  amber, 
in  opal  and  amethyst,  Moncrieffe  and  Hope  were  married. 

It  was  a  brilliant  wedding.  Many  beautiful  faces  were 
grouped  around  that  fairer  face ;  many  a  manly  heart  felt  a 
twinge  very  unlike  happiness  while  it  listened  to  the  words 
which  gave  that  lovely  young  creature  to  another;  many 
were  the  maidens  who  thought,  "What  a  handsome  husband  ;" 
many  the  young  men  who  sighed,  "  What  a  beautiful  wife  ;" 


A  Wedding  in  the  Last  Chapter.          385 

many  the  men  and  matrons  who  declared  "  What  a  splendid 
match !"  secretly  hoping  that  their  pug-nosed  "  Augusta  Jane 
would  do  as  well." 

Never  with  my  mortal  eyes  shall  I  behold  a  rarer  couple. 
He  in  the  fulness  of  manly  prime,  lofty,  yet  humble  ;  calmly 
happy,  yet  deeply  thoughtful  in  his  happiness ;  she  in  the  first 
bloom  of  her  wondrous  beaut^;  in  her  marvellous  and  un 
worldly  grace  pure  as  a  vestal  in  the  love  and  worship  which 
she  gave  him.  How  could  I  say  that  they  were  not  created 
for  each  other  ? 

Henri  gave  the  bride  away,  as  long  before  I  had  in  silence 
given  her — and  him!  I  loved  them  both — loved  them  too 
well  to  divide  them  or  to  mar  their  happiness  even  by  a 
thought.  I  could  never  be  indifferent  to  Moncrieffe ;  still  he 
was  mine,  even  as  Hope  was  mine ;  still  he  was  my  friend, 
"not  to  have  or  to  hold,  to  love  or  to  rejoice  in,"  but  to 
remember.  I  was  satisfied.  I  was  a  holier  and  happier 
woman  for  that  memory,  for  it  was  consecrated,  sanctified. 
Already  my  life  was  full  and  rich ;  I  no  longer  needed  Mon 
crieffe. 

We  were  to  sail  for  Europe  in  a  week  after  their  marriage. 
Moncrieffe  and  Hope  were  to  begin  their  life  at  Bel  Eden. 
Only  once  did  Moncrieffe  remind  me  of  the  past. 

"  Are  you  willing  to  remove  CEnone  ?"  he  asked  one  day  as 
I  entered  the  drawing-room  and  found  him  standing  before 
it.  "  This  belongs  to  the  old  life ;  you  know  that  I  have 
begun  a  new.  For  Hope's  sake,  it  must  not  be  darkened  by  a 
single  shadow  of  the  past.  It  is  better  that  CEnone  should  go." 

Thus  CEnone  went,  was  loaned  for  our  absence  to  the  di 
rectors  of  a  gallery  of  art,  and  there  took  its  place  among 
those  pictures  of  which  some  thoughtful  gazer  says :  "  It  must 
have  a  history  !"  wondering  much  what  the  story  is. 

We  spent  the  winter  in  Rome.  Amid  the  miracles  of  old 
art,  I  did  not  learn  to  despise  the  inspiration  of  the  new.  In 
paying  homage  to  the  old  masters,  I  did  not  cease  to  love  the 
masters  of  to-day.  Once  I  had  hoped  to  meet  Orsino  in  Italy. 
Alas  !  I  found  only  his  grave :  amid  the  flower  of  the  Roman 
youth  who  fell  in  Mazzini's  struggle,  Orsino  died.  Yet  he 
had  his  wish — he  poured  out  his  life-blood  for  Italy ;  the  sod 
of  Rome  made  his  pillow ;  her  purple  heaven  pavilioned  his 
rest.  Here,  above  his  head,  I  read  the.  last  words  which  he 
had  recorded  for  me,  the  last  written  before  his  death.  Many 
times  had  I  read  them  before ;  many  times  had  I  wet  them, 
with  my  tears : 

17 


386  Victoire. 

"To-morrow,  signora,  to-morrow  I  shall  behold  a  great 
conquest  or  I  shall  die.  If  I  live,  the  rubies  in  my  amulet 
will  burn  with  triumph,  and  I  will  write  for  you  the  record  of 
onr  victory.  If  I  die,  I  shall  die  for  Italy,  my  mother.  If  I 
die,  then  accept  these,  my  last  words :  that,  next  to  Italy, 
art  thou  dearest  to  Orsino's  heart." 

Orsino  was  only  one  of  thousands  of  Italians  who,  on  alien 
shores,  deplore,  with  all  an  exile's  yearning  love,  the  degra 
dation  of  their  country.  The  Italian  loves  Italy  as  he  loves 
his  mother.  Who  that  knows  their  self-denial,  the  ever-long 
ing  love  of  her  exiled  sons,  will  say  that  the  old  passion  for 
liberty  is  dead,  that  the  Italian  of  to-day  is  unworthy  the 
name  or  inheritance  of  his  fathers  ?  With  their  child-like 
hearts  and  the  poetic  fervor  born  of  their  summer  clime, 
their  souls  thrill  with  all  the  old  heroism,  their  arms  are 
nerved  with  all  the  tragic  valor  of  the  ancient  Roman.  At 
the  first  call  of  her  patriots  they  leave  our  shores  to  lay 
down  their  fortunes  and  their  lives  for  Italy.  May  all  for 
tune  favor  the  deliverers  of  Italy !  Glorious  Garibaldi !  God 
guard  his  way !  Heaven  hasten  the  hour  when,  beneath  the 
civic  heaven,  within  the  seven  hills  of  Rome,  a  ransomed  peo 
ple  shall  proclaim,  "  We  are  free  !" 

I  sat  beside  Orsino's  grave,  beneath  the  softest  of  Italian 
skies,  believing  then,  as  now,  that  the  blood  of  that  brave 
young  heart  had  not  been  spilled  in  vain.  Dear  to  him,  after 
the  ring  of  the  battle-field,  is  the  everlasting  calm.  Already  to 
that  tenderly-attuned  spirit  has  come  the  sleep  and  the  for 
getting  ;  thrice  blessed  will  be  the  morn  and  the*  awakening. 
Had  he  been  a  painter,  he  would  have  been  Raphael ;  had 
he  been  a  poet,  he  would  have  been  a  Shelley  without 
Shelley's  sins ;  but  the  gift  of  inspired  utterance — the  last 
gift  of  genius — was  denied  him.  His  soul  was  a-  harp,  want 
ing  a  single  string ;  pining  to  reveal  itself,  the  melody  which 
might  have  been,  looked  sadly  through  those  translucent  win 
dows,  yet  ascended  to  the  Eternal  without  a  sound. 

In  the  spring  we  went  to  Les  Delices.  I  had  prepared  my 
self  to  behold  desolation,  change,  decay ;  thought  that  the 
fountains  would  be  choked  and  the  flowers  dead;  but  the 
love  which  now  watched  so  tenderly  over  my  life  thought  of 
this  also.  Henri  sent  a  messenger  before,  and  when  we 
reached  it  not  a  trace  was  left  of  those  long  years  of  desertion. 

One  afternoon  in  May,  when  every  pulse  in  nature  seemed 
to  throb  with  ecstasy,  my  eager  eyes  caught  the  first  gleam 
of  the  scarlet  turret  beneath  the  firs.  The  cascade  was  voci- 


A  Wedding  in  the  Last  Chapter.          387 

ferous,  throwing  its  creamy  skirts  far  over  the  rocks ;  the 
fountains  gurgled  happiness ;  the  flowers  bloomed,  the  birds 
sang  ;  even  the  face  of  old  Ceres  wore  a  radiant  look  as  she 
held  out  the  flowers  and  fruits  in  her  hand  to  the  returning 
wanderers.  The  vines  which  I  knew  in  childhood  still  mantled 
the  veranda  and  hung  high  above  my  head ;  but  the  win 
dows  were  wide  open,  and  as  I  entered,  there  were  the  fade 
less  frescoes,  the  antique  furniture  of  the  old  beloved  room, 
the  very  carpet  on  which  I  had  played  when  a  child. 

"  Henri,"  I  said,  as  I  threw  myself  into  his  arms,  "  how 
tender,  how  thoughtful,  how  good  you  are!  What  heart 
could  withstand  such  a  love  as  yours  ?" 

And  as  we  stood  amid  all  those  hallowed  souvenirs  of  a 
happy  past,  in  the  full  joy  of  a  still  more  happy  present,  our 
tears  of  gratitude  mingled  together.  But  there  was  a  still 
more  sacred  spot  to  be  visited ;  through  the  open  windows 
we  saw  the  white  cross  shining  pure  above  Frederick's  grave. 
The'  velvet  turf,  all  starred  with  white  blossoms,  seemed  a 
fitting  coverlet  for  that  beautiful  body  with  which  I  never 
could  connect  the  idea  of  decay.  Already  it  seemed  immor 
tal.  Even  now,  while  I  knelt  beside  his  tomb,  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  hardly  been  separated  from  him ;  and  as  the  words  which 
he  had  uttered  to  me  long  before  came  back,  "  As  a  minister 
ing  spirit  I  may  do  more  for  you  than  if  I  walked  by  your 
side  fainting  beneath  the  burden  of  my  own  humanity;"  I  felt 
as  if,  through  all  those  years,  he  had  never  left  me.  '  Good 
stars^  meet  in  your  horoscope,'  he  had  also  said.  I  knew  it ; 
I  felt  it  now.  - 

Two  years  have  passed  since  that  night ;  still  we  linger  at 
Les  Delices.  The  winters  were  spent  at  Florence  and  Paris, 
and  we  are  here  for  the  last  time  now  ere  we  return  to  Ame 
rica  and  Bel  Eden.  The  new  poetic  home  of  Moncrieffe  and 
Hope  I  shall  see  from  the  window  of  my  studio.  She  writes: 
''Already  we  are  settled,  and  so  happy !  When  will  you 
come  ?"  Les  Delices — truly  named  "  The  Delights" — I  am  in. 
no  haste  to  leave  thee  ! 

I  received  a  letter  from  Morna  the  other  day. 

"•You  ask  me  if  I  am  happy,"  she  writes.  "  When  I  ceas 
ed  to  seek  happiness  as  a  definite  object  it  came  to  me  una 
wares.  At  least  a  calm  has  fallen  on  my  life,  so  like  that  I 
call  it  happiness.  My  soul,  I  fear,  is  not  as  largely  de 
veloped  as  yours,  for  you  drink  from  fountains  of  life  of 
which  I  have  never  tasted.  The  bliss  of  the  wife  and  the 
mother  will  never  be  mine.  Already  people  begin  to  call  me 


388  Victoire. 

an  '  old  maid'  and  to  pity  me  because,  with  wealth  and  fame, 
I  am  still  alone.  I  am  very  weary  of  that  old  idea  that  a 
woman's  life  can  have  but  one  event — that  if  she  does  not 
marry  there  is  nothing  worth  having  left  for  her.  The 
world  of  human  affection,  the  world  of  benevolence,  of  nature, 
art,  of  thought,  of  religion,  open  their  avenues  to  her.  Here 
in  abide  all  serene  and  elect  souls,  whether  men  or  women — 
they  who  are  likest  the  angels,  in  whose  spirits  the  earthly  sub 
serves  the  divine.  And  I  confess  I  do  not  see  why  a  life  of 
individual  action,  of  lonely  personal  endeavor,  need  force  a 
woman  to  lay  aside  the  unsullied  garments  of  her  normal 
womanhood  and  go  forth  to  add  discord  to  this  most  discord 
ant  world.  I  can  but  feel  that  a  woman  drops  the  insignia 
of  her  most  sacred  nature,  when,  making  herself  the  highest 
end  of  all  effort,  she  chases  amid  the  crowd  the  phantoms  of 
fame  and  power. 

"  I  am  sure  that  it  is  very  plain  to  see  that  in  the  jostling 
world  men  contend  for  most  contemptible  prizes.  Why 
should  a  woman  want  them,  or  seek  for  them,  when  in  a 
thousand  unrecorded  ways  she  may  be  a  teacher  and  savior 
of  the  race ;  when  her  nameless  deeds  are  recorded  among 
the  stars ;  when  to  the  utterance  of  her  thought  the  ages  will 
reverently  listen  ?  The  life  of  an  unmarried  woman  need  not 
be  miserable  or  incomplete.  This,  dear  Victoire,  I  believe. 
My  friends  waste  all  the  pity  which  they  lavish  upon  me. 
My  life  is  not  barren,  my  affections  do  not  wither.  I  do  not 
love  the  less  all  the  beauty  around  me,  the  fair  children  who 
spring  in  my  path,  because  they  are  not  mine.  Why 'need 
my  life  grow  selfish  or  contracted  while  I  am  surrounded  by 
God's  poor  and  all  the  sorrow  that  is  in  the  world  ?  Pardon 
this  long  lecture,  but  I  think  that  I  am  nearly  happy.  Victoire, 
come  home  and  see  1" 

I  have  been  the  recipient  lately  of  a  long  favor  from  Mrs. 
Peacook.  She  informed  me  in  a  very  remarkable  handwriting, 
that,  as  her  youngest,  "  Victory  Hope,  has  e'en  a  most  grow'd 
out  of  sight  an'  mind,"  she  has  commenced  her  long  medi 
tated  novel,  and  she  has  no  doubt  that  it  will  "  bring  her  an 
everlastin'  fortin' !"  In  great  detail  she  has  recorded  for  me 
all  its  incidents  and  characters,  by  which  I  learn  that  Miss 
Hope  is  the  heroine,  and  Miss  Victory  her  rival.  It  bears 
the  not  unappropriate  title  of  "Lovely  Hose,  the  Lady 
of  Fortin',"  and  when  it  is  completed  it  may  be  purchased 
by  Mr.  Bonner — not  as  a  novel  in  any  way  equal  to  Sylvanus 
Oobb's,  but  as  a  literary  curiosity  of  the  nineteenth  century. 


A  Wedding  in  the  Last  Chapter.          389 

Through  the  narrowest  streets  of  New  York,  through  its 
most  filthy  alleys  and  darkest  passes,  these  long  summer  days, 
walks  a  young  man  carrying  always  a  satchel,  and  often 
looking  weary  and  worn.  Into  garret  and  cellar,  into  dens 
the  most  wretched,  to  human  beings  the  most  depraved,  this 
young  man  penetrates ;  but  wherever  he  goes  I  think  that  he 
carries  with  him  something  of  light  and  cheer.  In  homely  lan 
guage,  but  with  a  directness,  kindness,  and  sincerity  which 
command  their  attention,  he  talks  to  them  of  a  better  life  ;  tells 
them  how  they  may  become  sober,  honest,  and  happy.  He 
does  more ;  he  oifers  to  assist  them,  to  show  them  how  they 
may  become  industrious  and  earn  a  reputable  living ;  he  does 
still  more — he  takes  these  neglected  little  ones  of  these  dark 
abodes  by  the  hand  and  leads  them  forth  to  the  soft-eyed 
women  who  will  wash  their  sad  little  faces,  cover  them  with 
whole  garments,  and  teach  them  day  after  day  in  the  Mission- 
schools. 

From  his  plain  dress  and  bearing,  he  is  one  whom  (had  she 
never  seen  him  before)  Kate  Murphy  would  declare  was  "  no 
gran'  gintleman,"  and  his  face  is  by  no  means  handsome. 
Still  I  like  it  exceedingly.  I  like  the  manly  forehead,  the 
clear  frank  eyes  with  the  shadow  of  sadness  in  them,  the 
earnest  air  and  look  of  sincerity  which  radiates  from  every 
feature.  Yes,  I  like  this  face,  and  have  a  most  sincere  regard 
for  its  owner.  This  young  city  missionary  is  George  Wash 
ington  Peacock.  I  doubt  if  he  will  ever  receive  a  call  to  a 
church  in  Fifth  Avenue. 

There  are  other  and  fitter  "  calls"  for  George  Washington. 
In  the  lonely  villages  of  the  frontier ;  on  the  endless  prairies 
of  the  great  West,  where  houses  are  scattered  and  churches 
rare;  where  the  children  pine  for  new  books  and  Sabbath- 
school  libraries  of  their  longingly  remembered  Eastern  homes ; 
where  immigrants  hunger  for  the  bread  of  life,  and  lonely 
women  weep  as  they  recall  the  lost  privileges  of  their  youth — 
the  meeting-house,  the  minister,  the  minister's  wife  (though 
perchance  they  found  much  fault  with  her  once) ;  where  a 
warm  and  honest  heart,  a  simple  and  sincere  utterance,  are 
prized  more  than  all  priestly  polish,  all  oratorical  grace — there 
George  Washington  Peacock,  with  his  Bible  and  bag  of  red- 
cheeked  books,  will  be  received  as  a  messenger  direct  from 
God.  In  some  stark  pine  school-house,  blistering  unsheltered 
in  a  fierce  prairie  sun,  or  in  some  little  log  meeting-house, 
from  miles  away  will  gather  "  the  neighbors" — men  with  white 
hair,  grandames  leaning  on  their  sticks  ;  bronzed  men,  bony 


390 


Victoire. 


matrons,  young  men,  maidens,  and  little  children,  to  listen 
with  eager  tears  to  the  immortal  story  of  a  loving  and  saving 
Redeemer  as  it  falls  from  the  young  missionary's  lips.  Or  in 
the  haunts  of  great  cities  where  squalor  and  vice  abide ;  amid 
"  common  people"  like  those  from  whose  veins  he  sprang  ;  in 
a  thousand  ways  and  in  a  thousand  places,  can  George  Wash 
ington  Peacock  love  and  labor.  He  no  longer  speaks  of  "  Miss 
Hope  ;"  long  ago  ago  that  name  died  from  his  lips.  Neither 
has  he  ever  manifested  any  personal  preference  or  attachment 
for  any  other  lady.  Through  all  his  mortal  life,  through  all 
changes  of  time  and  fortune,  will  Hope  Avondale  be  en 
shrined  "  all  lonely  in  his  highest  thought,"  the  being  who 
unconsciously  to  herself  has  been  the  angel  who  has  wrought 
his  regeneration. 

Victoire  fancies  that  she  has  found  the  secret  of  happiness. 
She  has  found  it  in  cherishing  the  joy  which  she  has,  in  ceas 
ing  to  sigh  for  that  which  she  has  not. 

She  knows  of  no  other  way  to  struggle  towards  all  goodness 
and  purity  than  to  tear  away  the  little  secret  shoots  of  evil 
as  fast  as  they  appear  before  they  reach  the  surface  or  blossom 
into  acts ;  tearing  them  away  with  unsparing  hand,  that  we 
may  leave  space  for  God's  light,  room  for  the  good  and  beau 
tiful  to  grow  within  us. 

The  grandest  victories  are  not  those  which  history  records 
and  to  which  all  generations  pay  homage ;  nor  those  the  sub- 
limest  sacrifices  which  are  emblazoned  on  the  world's  escut 
cheon.  A  common  life  is  often  made  not  only  holy  but  heroic. 
The  silent  triumph  of  a  single  obscure  soul  over  its  own 
error  or  weakness — though  never  known  or  praised  of  men, 
is  reverenced  by  angels  and  acknowledged  of  God. 

If  growth  is  the  end  of  existence,  how  are  we  to  grow  into 
harmonious,  perfectly  developed  beings  ?  Not  by  being  ab 
sorbed  in  a  single  object,  not  by  cultivating  a  single  faculty  will 
we  become  mentally  and  morally  distorted ;  but  in  allowing  this 
many-sided,  myriad-shaded  soul  which  God  has  given  us  to 
develop  in  complete  symmetrical  expansion.  Then  the  great 
life  within  us  will  flow  to  beings  without,  and  we  shall  never 
ask — Have  we  riches  to  spare  ? — never  dream  of  merit  in  its 
bounteous  overflowing.  Is  it  not  God's  life  ? 

The  sun  is  going  away  from  Les  Delices  this  wondrous  sum 
mer  day — going  away  in  scarlet  fire  down  behind  the  firs. 
Gorgeously  rifted  cloud-piles  uplift  their  pearly  peaks  above 
the  mountains.  The  Rhone's  arrowy  waters  —  dark,  yet  tip 
ped  with  flame— swiftly  pierce  the  rocky  passes,  while  white 


A  Wedding  in  the  Last  Chapter.          391 

sails  gleam,  and  boatmen  call  upon  its  breast.  Here  on  the 
veranda  I  am  writing  my  last  words  for  you.  Are  you  glad  ? 
I  get  on  slowly,  for  I  have  to  pause  so  often  and  look  at  what 
I  see  before  me — a  picture  which  fills  eye  and  heart.  A  little 
way  off,  under  that  spreading  larch,,  sits  a  gentleman  with  a 
book  in  his  hand,  but  he  is  not  reading  it.  No,  he  is  looking 
at  just  what  I  am.  This  gentleman  is  my  lover.  "  All  man 
kind  love  a  lover  !"  All  women  surely  do.  I  should  find  it 
very  lonesome  living  without  one.  My  lover  is  all  that  I 
desire — my  lover  is  my  husband.  Once  his  face  was  called 
cold.  But  with  that  soft  fire  burning  in  his  eyes,  with  that 
smile  of  happiness  playing  about  the  mouth,  who  can  call 
that  face  cold  now  ?  But  what  are  we  looking  at  ?  Here  on 
the  turf,  chattering  like  a  magpie,  is  Azalie;  and  here  is  a  lit 
tle  cat  flying  after  its  tail,  and  a  silken-eared  dog  bobbing  his 
nose  after  flies,  and  a  sunny  boy  whose  little  life  may  be  mea 
sured  by  twelve  happy  moons. 

A  great  sight,  you  say,  to  absorb  a  sensible  man  and  woman. 

Never  mind;  it  suits  us.  The  boy  rolls  and  croons  with 
happiness,  feet  and  hands  twinkling  in  the  golden  light ;  he 
does  not  pull  the  cat's  tail  to  the  roots  till  she  flies  at  him 
with  a  terrible  "  yow,"  nt>r  the  dog's  ears  till  he  fiercely  bites 
and  yelps,  but  it  is  only  because  we  will  not  let  him.  Azalie 
declares  that  she  is  enchanted  with  babies  now.  And  certain 
it  is,  I  never  hear  a  sudden  scream  indicating  that  the  tender 
ears  and  quivering  dimples  of  this  one  scion  of  our  house  has 
just  suffered  a  malicious  pinch.  The  natural  conclusion  would 
be,  that  in  the  lapse  of  time  Azalie  had  grown  better  tempered. 
But  I  prefer  to  think  that  the  want  of  pinches  is  all  owing  to 
the  fact  that  Master  Henri  Frederick  Vernoid  Rochelle  is  a 
vastly  more  amiable  child  than  Master  Augustus  Paul  Du 
Pont  ever  thought  of  being. 

But  do  I  see  nothing  in  the  world  but  this-baby  ?  Have  I 
forgotten  art  ?  Oh  no ;  I  paint  pictures  still,  but  no  longer 
childless  Niobes  and  forsaken  CEnones.  I  paint  Cupids  and 
Cherubs,  and  my  boy  is  the  model — my  boy  with  his  hya- 
einthine  eyes  and  winged  Andalusian  feet. 

The  sun  is  just  going,  the  earth  is  all  aglow.  This  is  a 
beautiful  world ;  I  love  to  live  in  it.  Do  not  you,  my  friend  ? 
If  this  world,  with  its  clouded  loveliness,  is  still  so  lovely ;  if 
this  life,  with  its  sad  discipline  and  brief  beginnings,  may  be 
made  so  fair,  what  must  that  world  be  towai'ds  which  we 
hasten  ?  What  that  life  upon  which  we  may  enter  with  per 
fected  minds  and  purified  hearts  ?  We  may  never  take  each 


39  2  Victoire. 

other's  hands,  or  look  into  each  other's  eyes  below ;  yet  some 
where  along  the  ages,  in  the  illimitable  universe,  beyond  the 
stars,  I  hope  we  shall  meet,  and  recognise,  and  love  each 
other. 
Good-bye,  my  friends ! 


THE  END. 


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